


leave the light on

by makemadej (santamonicayachtclub)



Series: leave the light on [1]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Barebacking, Dirty Talk, F/M, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Multi, Nipple Play, Pegging, Pining, Polyamory, Sex Toys, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-10-17 09:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17558063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santamonicayachtclub/pseuds/makemadej
Summary: With great deliberation, Shane sets his grocery bags on the kitchen island before he accidentally flails them all over the room. “We were supposed to be researching haunted lighthouses.”“Please tell me Ryan doesn’t consider his penis a haunted lighthouse.” Sara pauses in the midst of shoving a bag of garlic cloves into the crisper. “I mean, I guess it wouldn’t surprise me, per se.”(The one where Shane has a crush, Ryan has a Fetlife account, and the two of them unexpectedly collide.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing to see here but a whole lot of awkward because this is how I show my Shane appreciation. Tags and ratings will be edited with each chapter (spoiler: explicit stuff will happen). I regret exactly 0% of terrible lighthouse puns that may occur.

“How do you feel about lighthouses?”

Working with Ryan means having a healthy dose of patience for his weird stream of consciousness methods. He mutters to himself constantly, a one-sided dialogue that presumably makes some kind of sense to the ever-ticking Bergara brain. He perseverates long and hard once he’s got an idea in his head, no matter how illogical it is, until Shane half wants to shake him and half wants to start belting out “Let It Go” in his best Elsa impression. He has a habit of asking questions at random like he’s plucking them off a question tree and chucking them at Shane to see if he catches them or ends up covered in smashed question pulp.

Maybe they’re both equally weird. The thing is, Shane is completely aware of his own oddities, but Ryan seems to go through life thinking there’s nothing unusual about his MO. It’s one of many things about him that’s way more endearing than it has any right to be.

Shane leans back in his chair, interlocking his fingers behind his head. “Ah, yes. Lighthouses, the Freudian symbols of the sea.”

As expected, Ryan heaves an explosive sigh. “Why do I ask for your input on anything ever?”

“Do you want my input on that?”

Ryan gives him a withering look from under the brim of his cap, or rather, the closest Ryan can ever come to a withering look while he’s grinning from ear to ear. “We should do a lighthouse, man. You know how many stories there are of ships crashing on the rocks and shit? They’re full of ghosts.”

“You think everywhere is full of ghosts,” Shane points out, with what he considers flawless logic. “Kelsey could say she heard a weird noise coming from the trash can and you’d be there in two seconds firing up the ol’ spirit box and listening for otherworldly advice about recycling.”

“I’ll put your weird _face_ in a trash can,” Ryan mutters. Then he bounces back into business mode. “For real, though, look. I googled it and there’s so much haunted lighthouse shit, man.” He swivels his screen towards Shane, revealing that he has about a zillion tabs open, along with Slack and a few sticky notes.

“So again, like I was asking: how do you feel about lighthouses?”

“I have no strong emotions one way or the other.” Shane skims the beginning of the article currently visible on Ryan’s screen. “‘Majestic coastal beacons,’ huh? Are you sure you didn’t write this one?”

“Yeah, you got me. I used to be a travel blogger on the side when times were tough.”

“Aren’t we kind of travel bloggers right now? Vloggers, anyway. I mean, we go different places and vlog about them. Just because we’re documenting how many times you pee yourself in terror doesn’t make it any less valid.”

Ryan doesn’t even spare him a glance, just slowly and deliberately lifts a middle finger to adjust the angle of his hat.

“Fine, yeah, let’s do a lighthouse. Maybe I’ll learn something I can spin into a Ruining History. I mean, I’ve steered the show in a pretty piratical direction a couple of times already, but everyone loves them a little adventure on the high seas, right?”

That earns him one of Ryan’s incandescent smiles. “Cool. So I think I’m gonna narrow all this,” he jerks his head towards the screen, “down to like the top three spookiest possibilities, have the research team jump on it, figure out visiting opportunities, all that stuff.”

“How long is that gonna take, do you think? It looks like you’ve got a lot to pick from.”

“Yeah,” Ryan draws out the word, getting a rather sheepish look on his face. “I kind of went down a rabbit hole. Few hours, probably. But see? I told you. Full of ghosts, man, every single one.”

“I’m free tomorrow if you wanna come over and knock out the loser lighthouses.”

“Yeah?”

“Only thing on the sched so far is brunch and maybe doing some laundry.”

“Living it up, huh? Where’re you brunching?”

“Dunno yet, Sara’s picking this time. Probably somewhere with bottomless mimosas.”

Ryan perks up at that. “Sara’s got her priorities in order. Lemme know if you need a third wheel.”

“Please. How are we gonna smack talk you that way?”

The look Ryan levels at him is somewhere between affection and scorn. “Like I don’t know exactly what you think about me already.” He deepens his voice in what Shane has long since accepted is Ryan’s idea of a killer Shane impression. “‘Oh my god, Sara, he’s so annoying! He thinks ghosts are real and he sounds dumb when he tries to narrate’. And she’s just like, ‘yeah, Shane, I work with him too, let’s talk about something else because sometimes your obsession really worries me.’ Did I get that about right?”

“Or I could just smack you for real, if that would make you feel better,” Shane suggests, then immediately regrets it.

An indecipherable look flits across Ryan’s face and just as quickly vanishes into a grin. “My dude, this is definitely not a workplace appropriate conversation. Also, you’re the gentlest giant to ever lumber across the earth.”

“Just saying, maybe you don’t know _exactly_ what I think of you. I’m a very mysterious person.”

“Whatever. Keep telling yourself that, big guy.”

Shane is about to try and backpedal as gracefully as he possibly can at this point. He’s all set to ask why the hell Ryan’s Sara impression sounds like a cross between a valley girl and a parakeet, all set for Ryan to laugh and sputter in response, and for everything to dissolve back into the usual banter and brattiness that comprises a very reliable portion of their relationship.

Then Ryan slides him a wink.

Ryan has a nasty habit of doing things that have no right to be anything but cheesy and making them seem sultry as fuck. Even worse, he seems to have no idea. Shane is in no rush to enlighten him, but sometimes it feels like that might be out of his control.

“You know what, I should check with Sara about that,” Shane blurts out. It’s about as smooth as a sledgehammer to the face, but fuck it.

“You _live_ together,” Ryan points out.

Shane pretends not to hear him. He’s up and out of his seat before Ryan can helpfully remind him he could just text her too.

 

* * *

 

“So most of the creepy shit is across the country. I got my spreadsheet on, see?”

Ryan is sitting cross-legged on the couch with his macbook open on the coffee table in front of them, ghostly priorities blooming across the screen in color-coded glory.

“Everything in green is, like, Michigan stuff,” he adds, sounding very pleased with himself. “That could be pretty cool too.”

Shane snorts. “Cool is one way of putting it. Would you be able to survive if we went that far north?”

“Right, right, I’m a delicate flower.” Ryan’s gaze tracks a long, eloquent path across the ceiling. “On second thought, forget it, my fragile constitution won’t last a day up there. Fuck what all those fancy doctors say about crisp mountain air.”

“I knew it. Is this all part of your master plan to sue Buzzfeed for reckless endangerment?”

Ryan grins. “Everybody needs a backup plan, right? I shared the doc with you if you wanna get in on this, by the way.”

Shane obligingly pulls his own laptop onto his knees and clicks the Shared With Me tab. “We starting with the first green one?”

“Yeah. I stuck a few links in there but I haven’t looked at anything beyond skimming for...ghost stuff.”

“Let’s make that our new tagline,” Shane suggests. “Buzzfeed Unsolved: skimming for ghost stuff.”

Ryan scrunches his nose in thought. “We don’t really have a tagline to begin with. Unless you count the intro where I give a rundown of what we’re all about and you just shake your head condescendingly.”

“I mean.” Shane lifts one shoulder as he opens the first link for Big Bay Point. “That is pretty hard to beat.” He skims the page. “So is this place, holy crap. It’s a B&B and it’s got _spa services_. We are so bumping this to the top of the list. Twelve ghouls out of ten.”

Doing some skimming of his own, Ryan starts to nod slowly. “Okay, wow, so this is super fucking picturesque. You can wander around and comment on the architecture while I do the real work.”

“ _Real work_ ,” Shane huffs under his breath. “Even the ghost is classy. It sounds like the worst thing he’s done is try to help out the innkeeper by shutting a few cabinets. He’s basically Casper.”

“I don’t think Casper had a backstory quite as tragic as this guy,” Ryan murmurs, which must mean he’s gotten to the part about the first lighthouse keeper’s suicide after the death of his son.

“Have you _seen_ the cinematic classic starring Christina Ricci? He could have been Devon Sawa if he’d lived! Instead he had to spend his afterlife waiting on his asshole ghost uncles, but even then he still never lost his spirit.”

Ryan groans. “Was that a fucking ghost pun? I thought we were above those.”

Shane just chuckles and opens another link.

They work in companionable silence for a few minutes before Ryan winces. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh what?”

“Big Bay might be too good to be true, man. There haven’t been any reports of ghost activity for at least six years.” Ryan looks almost sulky about this.

Every time Shane thinks he’s maybe figured out how Ryan’s mind works, something like this happens. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it our job to coax them out of their little ghostly hiding places? Maybe they just haven’t met the right ghost hunters.”

Ryan theatrically brings a hand up to rest over his heart. “I’m gonna need a minute to bask in you voluntarily calling yourself a ghost hunter, but...not exactly? It’s no fun trying to pick up a signal when there’s no active paranormal presence.”

“I’m going to need _several_ minutes to process the idea that you consider it _fun_ to go poking your nose into the creepiest crannies of the country and being one light flicker away from passing out.”

“‘The creepiest crannies of the country,’” Ryan repeats in his so-called Shane voice. “Nice alliteration, man. Anyway, I’m moving this further down on the list.”

As Shane starts investigating the second Michigan option, Ryan adds a few notes in the rightmost column of his spreadsheet. “Next one’s not looking so good either. It’s only open during the summer.”

Ryan’s almost-pout flashes out again. “Zero ghouls out of ten?”

“ _Negative_ ghouls, even. Unless you wanna put it on the docket for way later.”

“Fuck.” Ryan sighs and types a few more notes.

Eventually, they decide to rule out all the Michigan picks and Ryan is starting to look a little wilted around the edges. “We’ve been working pretty hard for a Saturday, big guy,” he says at last, once they’ve started exploring their East Coast options. “You want a drink?”

It’s not a bad idea. Shane is still riding the post-brunch buzz, reluctantly easing himself away from the world of chicken and waffles and, yeah, a few mimosas.

“Sure, just grab whatever beer I’ve got in there.” He waves a hand towards the kitchen. “I don’t know what’s left, but there should still be some.” It’s Sara’s turn to make their weekly grocery run and she’s not due back just yet, so hopefully there are a few bottles knocking around in the fridge.

“On it.” Ryan sets his macbook aside and treats himself to a long, slow stretch before getting up. He reaches his arms over his head and seemingly every shadow in the room leaps over to caress them in the most flattering way possible. Shane would be disgusted if he weren’t so entranced. Those biceps are an occupational hazard waiting to happen. One day Shane’s going to be so busy staring at them he walks into a tree or something.

It’s worked its way deep into Shane’s psyche, the way Ryan treats Shane and Sara’s place like it’s an extension of his own apartment. Can't name it, can't put a finger on it, he just knows seeing Ryan saunter around Shane’s home like he lives in it makes him feel all...melty.

It doesn’t help that Ryan apparently drove over after doing little more than rolling out of bed. He’s looking particularly bro-y today, Lakers cap askew, sweatpants, and a threadbare blue t-shirt that’s either one of those overpriced pre-worn chic deals from American Apparel or one he’s actually owned for about ten years. It’s a little tight and a lot distracting. Looking lived-in, like he belongs there, casual and at ease in Shane’s life. And there Shane goes, starting to melt all over the couch like a sun-warmed snowbank.

Ryan gives him a smile and a bottle--he’s managed to dig up some Hoegaarden, awesome--and Shane barely restrains the urge to chug the whole thing.

He’s tangled up in this stupid ghost-hunting business in all the ways.

 

* * *

 

“What if we did like an East Coast tour? Just hit up all the spookiest spots from Maine to Florida and top it all off by, uh, going to Disney World.”

The rest of Shane’s beer is gone by now and the narrowing down process has proceeded apace.

Ryan sounds way too nonchalant to actually be nonchalant about all this. Shane steeples his fingers and lets his eyebrows do their thing. “Be honest, is there some kind of hidden agenda in this plan?”

“I mean, if we’re in the area we might as well go say hi to the big mouse himself. And maybe do a Drinking Around the World tour of Epcot.”

“I think you might be putting the cart before the horse there, partner. So which spooky spots would we be hitting on this theoretical tour?”

The response is instant. “We’ve gotta start with Owls Head, man. The keeper’s daughter had an imaginary friend that was totally a ghost and he’s still knocking around.”

“Uh-huh.” Shane quickly runs through their notes to refresh his memory. “Knocking around adjusting thermometers and reminding people to put the foghorn on. Another Casper here.”

“And _then_ ,” Ryan shoots him a look that manages to telegraph a very shut-up-Shane vibe, “we hit up Execution Rocks in New York, ’cause that place sounds creepy as shit and I didn’t think you could visit it anymore but it looks like it’s been restored. Then Point Lookout in Maryland, that’s a classic, and maybe that one place in Georgia, and then we could finish it up in St. Augustine, which sounds like it’s got some serious Haunting of Hill House shit going on. And finally...” Ryan actually breathes in and closes his eyes like he’s attaining nirvana, “Orlando, baby.”

Shane politely waits a moment for him to come down from his Disney World high. “That’s a lot of fucking lighthouses.”

“Yeah,” Ryan admits. “And I doubt we’ll get to hit up all of 'em. But I’m good with these options if you are. I’ll email Alaina to start delving into them, checking out all the nitty gritty shit.”

“What about the Gasparilla one? That’s also in Florida. It has creepy giggling children and a fucking headless princess running around.”

Ryan looks cagey. “I think we’re gonna need to scrap this one because it’s not _technically_ on the East Coast?”

Shane waits.

“Also it’s a little farther from Orlando than St. Augustine.”

In spite of himself, Shane feels a dopey grin creeping across his face. “Oh my god. You’re so predictable.”

“That aside, any one of these would be awesome.” Ryan earnestly adjusts his glasses, denying nothing. “Peep the drone view of Execution Rocks and tell me that’s not cool as fuck.”

“Sure, I’ll get right on the...peeping.”

“And I’ve gotta pee.” Ryan hops up, clapping a hand to Shane’s shoulder in the process. “Thanks for helping me out, dude, this was a lot easier with two people.”

Ryan disappears around the corner and Shane’s laptop chooses then to start helpfully performing some automatic updates. Without thinking, he grabs Ryan’s to pull up drone footage of the island.

As usual, Ryan has a staggering number of tabs open, to the point where it’s impossible to tell what any of them are. Shane’s fingertip must knock against the trackpad because he clicks on one by mistake as he’s drawing the laptop onto his knees. He’s a split second away from navigating back to the Execution Rocks page when he realizes what he’s seeing.

The layout, with its gray text on a black background, doesn’t seem to have changed in the years it’s been since Shane paid this place a visit. If he’s honest with himself, he didn’t even realize the site was still active.

He can’t help smirking, just a little. It seems that Ryan, Mr. Let’s-Get-Down-to-Business himself, has been prowling fucking _Fetlife_ during their lighthouse jam session. Unbelievable. There are so many ways Shane can hold this over him, such a wealth of options for future Ryan-tormenting, that he’s almost paralyzed with indecision.

Then he realizes he’s accidentally discovered Ryan’s Fetlife profile, which is a whole new kind of paralyzing. And Shane being who he is, he can’t not read it. His eyes are already tracking the page before his brain catches up to them.

Ryan’s bio is short but definitely informative.

 

_First things first, I’m Asian AND Latino so if you’re racist then gtfo right the fuck now, thanks. I’m also bi as balls and don’t fuck with anything unhygienic. If you’re still here, aren’t a creeper, and can give a good hard spanking then hmu...I’ve been told I’m a power bottom and you know what, I’ll take it. BUT that doesn’t mean I can’t give it too. ;)_

 

And. There are pictures.

Shane swallows and clicks, on purpose this time.

None of them show his face, but his arms and abs and the cut of his hip bones are on full display. Then, and Shane doesn’t know what the hell he was expecting after reading about Ryan’s thing for being fucking spanked, there’s an ass shot.

He should scroll away, close the window, wipe all trace of his fingerprints off Ryan’s laptop.

He doesn’t. He’s the worst friend and the biggest creep ever.

But holy fuck, Ryan’s ass is gorgeous.

Shane’s seen him change clothes, and there was that video where he tried on swimsuits, but getting to drink in the sight at his leisure is a novelty. The photo shows Ryan from the tops of his thighs to the dip of his waist, not wearing a thing but mood lighting.

Shane fleetingly wonders how long it took him to set up this shot. Or if maybe he had someone else take it for him. As far as he knows, Ryan has been bafflingly single for the past several months, but clearly there are plenty of tidbits he doesn’t know about Ryan. For some reason Shane can’t identify, that stings. He always thought he could read Ryan like a book and now suddenly there’s a whole chapter he didn’t know existed.

He’ll brood about that later, when he’s not distracted. Because goddamn, if ever there was a distraction to be had, it’s this.

It really is more of an artistic shot than a titillating one. Ryan isn’t flexing or bending over, just existing and being attractive. There’s a shadow beyond the apex of his thighs that makes Shane forget how to breathe for a moment. And there are dimples in the small of his back that just beg for his imagination to consider how perfectly his thumbs would fit into them while his hands are wrapped around Ryan’s hips.

There are reasons Shane doesn’t normally let himself get distracted. It’s a very dangerous road to go down.

Then, rather belatedly, he catches sight of Ryan’s username: _smackthat000._

He can’t decide if it’s better or worse than something like clitlicker69. Either way, there’s not a fucking chance he’ll ever be able to interact with Ryan like a normal human being ever again.

From the couch arm, Obi gives him some serious feline side eye.

Shane is considering just leaping out the window and starting a new life when the sound of running water from the bathroom jumpstarts him into action.

He backclicks his way out of Ryan’s photos, navigates back to the tab he’d meant to click on in the first place, and carefully sets the laptop back on the coffee table.

It does not, thankfully, burst into flames that spell out SHANE MADEJ WAS HERE AND HE’S A HUGE PERV.

By the time Ryan emerges from the bathroom, Shane is digging through the fridge for any remaining alcohol that might be lurking somewhere within. How long is it going to take before he can look at Ryan without seeing his stupid Fetlife profile instead?

“Hey man,” Ryan calls from the living room, “you ready to check this over and wrap up?”

Shane rests his forehead against the freezer door in defeat. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s get this wrapped up.”

 

* * *

 

Mercifully, it doesn’t take more than ten minutes.

Shane edits the spreadsheet to reflect their final selections as Ryan sends the requisite emails about research team efforts and possible travel options. If he notices Shane is more reticent than usual, he doesn’t comment on it, but in all honesty Ryan seems too hyped up on spooky lighthouse adventures to notice much of anything.

When he leaves, Shane totally watches his ass like his life depends on it. How can he not?

Then he texts Sara.

 

_Hey babe did you know Ryan likes to get spanked?_

 

He isn’t expecting an immediate response, but when it comes he can practically hear the sound of her mind being blown.

 

**Wtf did you two get up to???**

 

_Yeahh. And he’s on fetlife_

 

**The fuck?? ????**

 

He can tell she’s frantically skimming giphy for the perfect reaction. A second later, up pops a gif of Titus Andromedon from Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt looking particularly taken aback.

 

_Whats your eta? I’ll tell you all about it._

 

**Ugh I need to know the deets but I’m in line at ralphs and i just realized i forgot to get kitty litter**

 

_Fuck it, want me to instacart it later?_

 

**Now you’re talking :D**

 

_Lol thanks for not making me process this alone <3 _

 

**right, cause hearing about your hot kinky bff is a real hardship on my part**

 

She follows this up with an eloquent string of emojis that includes a ghost, a flexing bicep, a flame, and a lipstick kiss. Shane doesn’t think he could possibly love her more.

Sara performs some kind of sorcery that gets her and a week’s worth of groceries back home in record time. And, being Sara, she doesn’t have any qualms about skipping pleasantries to get straight to the good stuff.

“First things first. Why, why, _why_ were you looking at Ryan’s Fetlife profile?”

With great deliberation, Shane sets his grocery bags on the kitchen island before he accidentally flails them all over the room. “We were supposed to be researching haunted lighthouses.”

“Please tell me Ryan doesn’t consider his penis a haunted lighthouse.” Sara pauses in the midst of shoving a bag of garlic cloves into the crisper. “I mean, I guess it wouldn’t surprise me, per se.”

Shane can’t even think of a quip, the truth just barrels its way out of him with no regard for wit. “I kind of borrowed his laptop while he was in the bathroom and clicked open the wrong tab by mistake.” His face is burning as he shoves a few boxes of granola into the pantry.

“Mm- _hm_. And you corrected your mistake immediately and life’s just ducky now, right?”

Shane groans and buries his face in Sara’s curls.

“So that’s a no.”

The only answer Shane can manage is both incoherent and embarrassingly high-pitched.

“Hey.” Sara strokes his back, gently steering him out of the kitchen and towards the couch. “Remember that time you told me you thought you were totally over your crush? That was pretty funny, huh?”

“Did I say that?”

“Yeah, something like how you were back to harboring a purely aesthetic appreciation of Ryan’s attractiveness.”

Shane can’t help but crack a smile. “That...does sound like something I would say.”

He and Sara don’t have secrets. It’s one of the most precious parts of their relationship, being able to maintain that level of implicit trust. Until today, he was under the impression Ryan didn’t have any secrets from him either--and once again, that thought makes something deep in Shane’s chest twist unpleasantly.

Sara tucks herself up against his side, watching him like she’s quite possibly assessing his mental state. “So,” she says slowly, with a nod towards his laptop, “are you gonna tell me or show me?”

“I don’t know if you want to get dragged down this rabbit hole with me,” Shane hedges. “Also you can’t view profiles without an account.”

Sara arches a brow and waits.

“Okay,” Shane sighs, “I _do_ have one, technically. But the last time I logged in was, like, 2009. I don’t even remember my login.”

“So make a throwaway account,” Sara says glibly, already reaching for his computer. “Or I can, whatever works.”

Shane stares blankly at the screen, visions of Ryan’s stupidly sculpted ass dancing in his mind’s eye. “What’s a good throwaway username?”

“Wow, you’re a hot mess right now,” Sara informs him, not unkindly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Just look around and use two of the first random things you see.”

“Isn’t that pretty much exactly how Mrs. Doubtfire starts?”

Sara giggles and mimes smashing a cake into her face. “Hel-lo!”

“I’m literally just signing up as Mrs. Doubtfire now.” Shane takes a minute to do just that, then frowns. “Okay, so it looks like the username is already taken.”

“Mrs. Doubtfire’s got game.” Sara nods solemnly. “I always suspected.”

“Two random objects it is,” says Shane.

He signs up as succulenthoegaarden, after the empty bottle in front of him and the plant perched on the windowsill, and pulls up Ryan’s profile.

Sara gapes. “Is his username seriously--”

“Yep,” Shane says grimly. “Sure is.”

“I’m gonna scroll down now,” she warns, reaching over. “If you decide we should be responsible adults and stop, speak up anytime.”

Shane does not speak up, which is how he learns Ryan is a member of several fascinating groups that include BDSM SoCal, California Kinksters, Ethical Polyamory, Violet Wand Play, LA Spanking, Fear Play--”Are you _kidding_ me?” he and Sara burst out in unison--Sensory Deprivation, Wrestling and Struggle Play.

He can feel his ears burning when he meets Sara’s eyes. “Well, we’re in this together now.”

If Sara has any objections to this, they aren’t apparent at all. “Dude,” she says, eyes wide. “You could spank him and let him fuck you after if he takes it well enough.” She’s skimming through Ryan’s gallery with the same faintly shell-shocked look Shane probably wore while doing the same thing.

“I know this isn’t brand new information, but holy crap, he’s fucking hot. His ass is so... _damn_.” She lifts her hands, fingers spread wide, and slowly clenches them into fists.

The room tips sideways for a moment and Shane makes a mental note to research symptoms of vertigo. “Gotta say, I still feel like kind of a creeper here, but a little bit less of one with you enabling me.” He flashes her a quick grin. “Even though you’re not doing much to help get me out of the rabbit hole.”

Sara throws back her head and laughs. “Oh, you fell way past the point of no return a long time ago. I’m just watching the journey unfold. You didn’t know that?”

"That reminds me," Shane says, keeping his tone light and casual. "Did I tell you I kind of threatened to smack him the other day?"

Impossibly, Sara's eyes widen even more. "Wow. Welcome to Wonderland. Now tell me _everything_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer to write than planned because life, but also it might end up being longer than planned, so there's that? I'm still not sure if it's going to need three or four chapters in total; HOWEVER, I am very sure the world needs Ryan Bergara modeling Lululemon. (See end notes for content warnings.)

Somehow, beyond all logic, Shane keeps his cool in the ensuing weeks.

On the outside, anyway. Inside, Shane is more or less a disaster at all times.

Ryan doesn’t seem to pick up on anything, which is really all that matters. Then again, Ryan has literally seen Shane bellow “I’m strange and off-putting!” and done nothing but crack up and nod agreeably in response. There’s a lot to be said for the general weirdness of their relationship.

Getting to lay all his agony out for Sara helps a lot. Without her, Shane would probably be unable to make direct eye contact Ryan without blurting out something incriminating every five seconds. Assuming, of course, Ryan would even want to _be_ in the same room with him after five seconds.

He honestly doesn’t understand how Sara is even putting up with him anymore.

“Dude,” she tells him finally, in a voice full of sleepiness and fond exasperation. “Stop apologizing for being in unrequited love with your devastatingly sexy best friend.”

Shane’s first instinct is to protest. He’s not apologizing _that_ often, it’s definitely just a Fetlife-fueled crush redux and not _love_ , Ryan’s not _devastating_...

“Okay,” he concedes.

Sara laces their hands together and twists around in their disheveled blanket-nest to kiss the doubt out of him.

“It’ll go away again,” Shane promises. “My brain just needs some time to...you know.”

“Two points of clarification,” says Sara. “One: your huge throbbing Ryan-boner can’t go away _again_ if it never went away the first time. And two: if you’re trying to say you think you’ll just conveniently erase every detail of his Fetlife profile from your consciousness, I’ve got some bad news.”

Shane’s chest tightens with either the symptoms of early-onset heart failure or sheer overwhelming affection for having Sara in his life. Betting on the latter, he ups his snuggling level just a touch more.

“Hey, so I really freakin’ love you. My brain is just a gigantic slut. I still have a huge throbbing Sara-boner.”

Sara lets out a shriek of laughter. “Oh god, it sounds creepy when you say it. And don’t slut shame yourself. Ryan’s a specimen, blah blah blah, we’ve moved past that.”

“Plenty of boner to go around, baby,” Shane says experimentally, just to watch her face contort. “Yeah, okay, that does sound pretty sketch.”

“Told you,” says Sara, sliding a leg over his. “See how much easier your life could be if you just listened to me all the time instead of wallowing in denial? You and Ryan could’ve been making sweet, sweet love like six months ago.”

There are a variety of well-worn responses that spring to Shane’s mind, all of which he and Sara have discussed multiple times. One, Ryan might not even be interested in him like that. Two, even if he is, there’s every chance they could screw up their friendship forever by screwing each other. Three, there’s a big difference between theoretically being okay with polyamory and actually trying it. Sara has talked a very good game about all three of these, but they’re all constantly playing out in the back of Shane’s mind like the world’s longest Debatable episode. And honestly, the jury’s still out on quite a few of the big questions concerning Shane’s life, like just how the hell he got lucky enough to end up with a girlfriend who doesn’t think he’s a hot mess even though he’s been steadily falling for his best friend over the past several months.

That’s a big one right there. Sara has every right to throw up her hands and throw him and his considerable emotional baggage out of her life. It sometimes boggles Shane’s mind that she hasn’t. He still worries sometimes that eventually she’s just going to get sick of his Ryan-related agony and cut her losses. Their history dictates otherwise, but Shane’s neuroses are stubborn as fuck.

 _You’re not gonna like it,_ he’d blurted out, when she sat him down to gently demand why he’d been acting so jumpy lately.

 _Maybe not, but clearly there’s something bugging you and I’m here to listen._ She’d flashed him a grin then, bright and quick. _Secrets are like farts: better out than in_.

 _How are you so chill about this?_ he’d demanded, and Sara had just looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

 _Because I care about you and I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt me,_ she told him. Easy as breathing.

And she hasn’t changed her tune once, ever since he choked out, emotional and emboldened after three glasses of wine, that he thought he might have a crush on Ryan.

That had been almost a year ago, before they’d even started living together. If Ryan was going to be a any kind of dealbreaker, the deal would have broken already.

Sara’s eyes are glinting, indigo-streaked hair wild when she pushes it off her face. “You think he’s got someone who does all that stuff with him?” There’s a crooked smile tugging at her lips, making her look like a cheeky woodland sprite.

Shane drapes an arm around her waist, overcome with gratefulness and not ready to face the workday just yet. “If he does, it’s not a committed relationship. Anyone gets their hands on Ryan, I don’t know why they’d let go.”

“Awwwww,” Sara coos, sounding positively delighted. “Unless it’s a kink thing and he makes them wear a sheet and rattle some chains, then disappear. His profile _does_ say he’s into fear play.”

“Yeah, whatever the fuck that means.” Shane still isn’t sure. Has Ryan covertly been popping boners every time they go snooping around for ghosts? That seems unlikely, especially since they spend a good portion of their investigations being recorded.

“There’s only one way to find out: dress up like a sexy ghost and see how he reacts.”

Shane snorts. “I’ll consider it.”

“Hey, remember what I said about always listening to me.” She pecks him on the lips and bounces out of bed. “Gonna shower, so you’re on feline breakfast duty.”

 

* * *

 

Shane is no believer in the supernatural, but sometimes Sara is just a little too prescient.

They’ve barely been at work for an hour when she plunks a water bottle down beside him.

“Control that thirst!” is all she says when Shane slides his headphones off and blinks up at her. Sara blows him a kiss over her shoulder and disappears towards her desk before Shane can react.

Which. Is fair.

Shane already had a very healthy appreciation for Ryan’s physique, but now it’s amplified to ridiculous levels. He can’t stop himself from noticing the way Ryan’s shirts cling to the breadth of his shoulders, the way his shorts skim the curve of his ass. He almost swallowed his tongue when Ryan let himself get roped into a Ladylike video where guys try different Lululemon products.

He’s barely gotten the top off his Evian when everything suddenly clicks into place. Ryan hasn’t been at his desk all morning, which Shane assumed meant he was sneaking in some editing or checking with the research team about the new season. He texted a few times to ask what was up, but the only thing Ryan sent him in response was a winking emoji.

Shane, of fucking course, has a mouthful of water when Ryan appears.

Apparently, Project Lululemon is a go.

And, even more apparently, he’s in the stage where he goes about his business as usual so the crew can capture some reaction shots. It is, in Shane’s opinion, entirely too early in the morning for this.

“He’s got a cute little booty on him,” is Jen’s I’m-super-gay-but-what-can-you-do assessment.

Ryan, in a pair of leggings with the luster and consistency of cling wrap, modestly pretends not to hear.  “I’m just doing it for the Vine, man.”

Shane thinks he bursts a few blood vessels from the effort of not choking.

“Are they...comfortable?” he asks, fixing his gaze to the wall just beyond Ryan’s left shoulder.

“Hell yeah, it’s like I’ve got nothing on at all,” Ryan grins, twisting himself into a halfhearted Sexy Flanders pose for the camera.

It’s beyond unfair that _Shane_ is the one feeling awkward in this situation. If he had less self-control, he’d be wondering what kind of underwear Ryan is even wearing with these things, if this is one of those borderline see-through pairs of leggings that caused such a scandal a few years back.

To Shane’s horror, he realizes he’s wondering exactly these things and then some.

“Stupid sexy Bergara,” Jen deadpans.

“C’mon,” Freddie says, “let’s see what Steven thinks and then swap these out for the crop top.”

“I,” Shane declares, turning back to his laptop, “will be over here _working_ , if anyone cares.”

Clearly, no one does.

“Don’t hate me 'cause I’m beautiful,” Ryan chirps.

Shane resolutely does not turn around to watch him walk away. “I could never.”

The second Ryan is out of earshot, Shane’s phone lights up with a text from Sara.

_If he’s on the prowl for a good spanking, he just might get it by the end of the day y/n???_

Since Ryan isn’t around to see, Shane lets himself drop his face into his hands and groan.

 

* * *

 

Against his better judgment, Shane falls into the habit of checking Ryan’s Fetlife profile. He tries to tell himself it’s just to make sure he’s being safe, which is the most anemic excuse in all excusedom given that a) Fetlife is not a therapy blog and b) he’s totally just checking for any new pics Ryan might have posted and there’s literally no way around just how much of a creeper that makes him.

Ryan doesn’t even post that often, but Shane’s heart leaps into his throat every time he notices a new picture (always something faceless and surprisingly tasteful) or comment (less tasteful). On one occasion, Ryan strikes up a conversation with someone in the Violet Wand group about how awesome spur electrodes are, which leads Shane into a very enlightening Google spiral. Ryan _would_ be into electric stimulation; the dude gets way too worked up over weird gadgets.

He does not, Shane notices, RSVP to any meetups or seem interested in hooking up.

All in all, instead of trying to shake off his crush, Shane ends up keeping it to a slow-burning but very well-tended fire of lust.

Then the lighthouse trip happens.

Ryan’s grand plans for an East Coast tour didn’t end up coming to fruition, so they’re only hitting up two lighthouse locations, one in New York and one in Maryland. Disney World, to Ryan’s disappointment, did not make the cut. It’s the first trip of the new season, and one Shane’s been both anticipating (because old lighthouses are pretty cool, he’s enough of a history nerd to admit that) and dreading (because the whole concept of lighthouse investigating is inextricably tied up with Ryan’s secret life as smackthat000). After all, this is also going to be his first time on the road with Ryan since the great Fetlife fiasco.

Naturally, this comes up while he’s spooned up behind Sara one drizzly afternoon.

“What am I gonna do without you?” The words just spill out of him, half muffled by the kisses he’s been lazily pressing to her bare shoulders.

Sara gives a hedonistic stretch that would make Obi proud. “Be more specific.”

Shane is distinctly aware that now might not be the best time to have this conversation. The two of them are entangled like figures in an X-rated Escher painting, with his fingers tracing the curve of Sara’s breast and their hips rolling together in a slow, effortless grind. “Just...stuff with Unsolved. I keep thinking it’s gonna be awkward or I’m gonna give something away.”

“ _Babe_.” There’s no censure in Sara’s voice, just dismay. She arches, reaching back to grasp a fistful of his bed-mussed hair. “It’s gonna be fine. You can call me whenever you need, you know that. Right?”

Her grip tightens with the question. Shane’s eyes slide shut, his thumbnail sketching a circle around her nipple. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“Ghost hunting is an inherently awkward profession,” Sara adds, voice hitching when Shane pinches gently.

Shane can feel a flush spreading over his face, courtesy of his stupid anxieties and Sara guiding his hand down the smooth expanse of her stomach. “I keep thinking about the Nazi chick from Indiana Jones who talks in her sleep.”

Sara’s belly tenses under his palm when she giggles. “Are you _serious_?”

“Kinda?” Shane admits, momentarily contorting to hitch his boxers down around his thighs and then tuck himself back against her, bare-skinned this time. “It’s dumb, but sometimes this stuff just happens. Even to Indy.”

“Okay, but you sleep with me almost every night and I’ve have never heard you do anything but snore. No weird confessions whatsoever.” She shivers deliciously and parts her thighs so he can slide his cock between them, shallow thrusts with just enough friction to make them gasp in unison. “Check and mate, pal.”

“Told you, it’s dumb.” He hides a rueful smile against her nape, toying with the waistband of her panties, letting a fingertip tease just under the edge. “All that talk therapy really does it for you, huh?”

“Oh, you know it. Fuuuuuck,” she breathes, and Shane leans in to catch her sighs against his lips.

He lets his touch ease lower, humming at the heat of her when his fingers play over the warm slit of her cunt. Sara whimpers and wriggles back against him, pliant and pleased.

“Is this for me or for Indy?” Shane can’t resist asking, his voice low in her ear as he glides a finger against her slick folds. “Sorry I’m kind of neurotic about this trip, by the way. That’s gotta be annoying.”

“No more angst,” Sara announces, sounding impressively authoritative considering she’s writhing down against his hand. “If you’re gonna dwell on it, think of the good stuff.” She turns over to straddle his hips, pink-cheeked and impish, clasping his wrist to keep him in place. “C’mon, you get to stay with Ryan in a haunted death dildo. That’s bound to be exciting.”

“Can you not say dildo right now?”

“Why not?” Lowering her voice, giving a nip and a wicked grin at the edge of his ear. “Don’t you want me to put one in you?”

Shane opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again.

Very gently, Sara taps his chin with one finger and brushes a kiss against his lips when he obligingly tips his face up to meet hers. “I need to hear you say it, babe.”

One of her small, clever hands closes around his dick and squeezes, just so.

Shane bucks up into her touch like he’s been shocked.

He says it.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t Shane’s first rodeo in the Big Apple. He’s visited plenty of times, for business, for pleasure, for the weird mix of both that is his ghost-hunting career. It is, however, his first time taking an honest to goodness three-hour tour.

Ryan regards him with grim intensity as he tugs his Buzzfeed beanie down over his ears. “If you start singing Gilligan’s Island, I’m throwing you overboard.”

“Uh, not while he’s recording you’re not,” Mark interjects mildly.

“Fine,” says Ryan. “I’ll forcibly strip him of all technology and _then_ throw him overboard.”

“Ooh la la,” Shane mutters. “Good luck lasting the night on the island without me.”

TJ glances between them. “I feel a ‘shut up, Shane’ coming on.”

“You guys are the worst,” Ryan sputters.

All of them slept like babies on the flight from LAX, so now they’re punchy from the rest and the change of scene. They’re still in Long Island Sound, somewhere between New Rochelle and Port Washington, but it feels like they’ve slipped sideways into a whole new plane of existence.

Execution Rocks Lighthouse is literally an island unto itself, spearing into the sky the same way it has since 1849. Execution Rocks, the same lighthouse Shane was supposed to be looking at when he got an accidental eyeful of Ryan’s kinks instead. The ferry out to the island comes with a history lesson and a tour of the surrounding area, and Ryan’s been eagerly drinking it all in even though they just set sail ten minutes ago. If Shane gets knocked over by a wave of fondness, he’s one hundred percent prepared to blame it on his sea legs (“I’ve got more leg than all of you combined, it’s gonna take me longer to get my balance!”).  

“Supposedly,” says Linda, a nautical historian who bears an uncanny resemblance to one of Shane’s aunts, “this place was named for the practices of the Redcoats who occupied Long Island during the American Revolution. They would chain captives to the rocks surrounding the island during low tide, then just leave them there as the tide slowly rose.”

“How long did it take for the tide to come in?” Ryan asks.

Linda grimaces. “As long as twelve hours.”

“Holy shit,” Shane murmurs.

The sea air whips their faces, salt-tinged and strong. Ryan looks over at him, grinning, hair askew and cheeks nipped a wind-bitten pink. Shane wants to kiss him so badly his fingers ache from clinging to the rail.

“That’s all legend, of course,” Linda reassures them. “No evidence of drowned colonists has ever been found. Most historians agree the name Execution Rocks really comes from the danger all those sharp rocks posed to ships trying to get around them. There was a steamer, the Maine, that crashed in 1920, but everyone survived.”

Watching Ryan nod politely while trying not to show his disappointment is exquisite. Shane is so going to rib him about this later.

In addition to Linda, their team is being accompanied by Rob, a retired lighthouse keeper with an impressive Queens accent, and of course the water taxi driver. If Linda is the Shane of their little crew, Rob is most definitely the Ryan.

“What do you think about this?” Shane asks him. “Haunted or not haunted.”

“Oh, absolutely haunted,” Rob answers without hesitation. “There’s something not right about that place and I’m not the only one who came up against weird shit. I was there three years, and there were always two of us. I remember one time the other guy, Mitch, was sleeping--we both had our own shifts, so he’d sleep while I was on duty--and when it got dark the lamp just didn’t come on.”  

“And that’s...not normal, clearly,” says Ryan. “Lighthouse, light, they kind of go together.”

Rob’s aviators catch the sun when he nods, momentarily blinding Shane. “It’s more than not normal, it’s dangerous as hell. And the thing is, the Coast Guard’s had this place set up with solar batteries since the 70’s and the lamp is all automatic. Soon as it gets dark, it goes on. So when it just didn’t go on and there was no problem with the batteries, we knew something was messing with us.”

“So you were on an island, one that’s literally named after the dangerous rocks surrounding it, and the light in the lighthouse wasn’t working.” Ryan’s eyes are huge. “Did you freak out?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Rob says, his mustache doing a strange bit of gymnastics on his upper lip when he huffs out a laugh. “It came back on by itself, but me and Mitch, man, we never got to the bottom of that one. We’d also smell flowers in the middle of the night, and there’s no way it was coming from anywhere on the island. It’s nothing but rocks. One or the other of us would be up all night, in case the fog came in, and the other one would be sleeping, so it’s not like Mitch was running around spraying perfume. We’d also get weird tapping noises, problems with the alarm, this feeling like someone was holding us down...”

“Whoa,” murmurs Ryan. “Those are all classic signs of infestation, oh man.”

 _Classic_. Right. Shane stifles a snort. More like Rob’s just as nutty as Ryan about this stuff and probably spent way too many of those sleepless nights reading creepy shit. He turns back to Linda, tuning Ryan out as he continues to pick Rob’s brain. “What else is Execution Rocks known for, aside from being a hazard?”

“The view is probably the least macabre thing about it.” She chuckles and points back towards the skyline. “Those mansions over there, that’s Long Island’s Gold Coast. It was actually F. Scott Fitzgerald’s inspiration for Gatsby’s home in The Great Gatsby.”

“I should’ve petitioned Ryan to stay in one of those babies,” Shane mutters.

“As for the _more_ macabre things, you can also see Hart Island. Over one million dead buried there, the biggest cemetery in the country. Very hard to visit nowadays, but in the past it was used as a yellow fever quarantine and a women’s psychiatric ward, a prison camp, and a Cold War missile station, just to name a few. Not all at once, of course. And then there’s all that documentation about the serial killer who murdered sailors and disposed of their bodies on the rocks.”

Every last word sounds like a potential Ruining History theme. Shane adjusts his camera and leans in. “Go on.”

He and Ryan are both transfixed by the time she’s finished sharing the story of Carl Panzram, who had a habit of luring his prey away from pubs and murdering them.

“He swore up and down he’d killed at least twenty-one victims and sodomized over a thousand men,” she says, quite calmly. Shane is more weirded out than ever by how much she looks like his Aunt Janie. “And he wanted everyone to know he wasn’t sorry for any of it, right up until he was hanged in 1930.”

“Called the executioner a Hoosier bastard when they did it, too,” Rob interjects, startling all of them. “And he spat in his face before they got the hood on him. Some people think he’s still around.”

“One of many ghost stories that have sprouted up over the years,” Linda says, a bit tartly. Shane has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from snickering.

“The owners were contacted by a psychic who claimed to feel,” Rob curls his fingers into air quotes, “an ‘aggressive male presence’ on the site. If there’s anyone rattling around the place, it’s gotta be him.”

“Yeah, I read about that!” Ryan chirps. “This nonprofit bought this place for one dollar and she reached out to--”

“Okay,” Shane cuts him off. “You know what, it’s not totally restored so there’s gotta be lead-based paint all over the place. People probably hallucinated from asbestos or something.”

“Shane,” Ryan says pleasantly, “I mean this with all the love in the world, but if you mention moldy bread, I really will throw you overboard.”

The water taxi lurches to an unsteady stop. Shane looks Ryan dead in the eye and smirks. “Be my guest, little guy. Looks like we made it.”

 

* * *

 

 

There are two structures on the island, the lighthouse itself and the keeper’s house, and not much else. They’ve opted to go with separate rooms, even though both the bedrooms are equipped with two cots. The Rochelle room looks out across the sound, while the Hector room faces back towards the city.

It was Shane’s idea, and he thinks he did a decent job selling it in a very casual manner. “We should sleep on opposite sides so we can see ghouls coming from all directions.”

Ryan pats him on the shoulder. “Fine by me. But for real, if this was a horror movie, you’d be the idiot telling everyone to split up.”

Shane wonders if maybe he was jumping the gun by bringing up room assignments this early. It’ll be a while before they settle in; most of their outdoor footage has to be shot while there’s still daylight if they want to truly capture the  panorama of this place, which means they have to suit up and get moving ASAP.

If Ryan notices anything amiss, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

The view from the peak of the lighthouse is so breathtaking it’s almost enough to wipe Shane’s mental slate clean of all worries. They can see all the way across Long Island Sound, a shining sheet of blue in every direction. Shane is struck with a paradoxical jolt of isolation and dominion. “This is weird. We’re in the middle of nowhere but also it’s like we’re Batman and Robin looking out over Gotham City.”

“I’m Batman,” Ryan says automatically. “Damn, I can see why people book this place for weddings.” The wind is raking his hair in seven directions at once and the harness of his GoPro is bunching his peacoat into unsightly bulges. He's so gorgeous Shane can barely look at him dead on. “The photos must be crazy awesome.”

“Great, now all I can think of is a Batman and Robin wedding,” Shane lies, because he’s very much thinking of wrapping his arms around Ryan’s poor beleaguered California body the next time he shivers. If there was any cell service to speak of, he’d be sneaking off to text Sara for reassurance at the first opportunity.

Ryan rolls his eyes. “See, who says romance is dead?”

“Uh, a bunch of drowned soldiers and every victim of Carl Panzram?”

Ryan doesn’t even respond to that.

They do a slow sweep of the lighthouse, working their way down to the truly dank recesses of the cellar. There’s nothing in there aside from generators and trash, but it’s the top contender for their obligatory seclusion-in-the-darkness scene.

Ryan’s steeling himself up to kill the lights and fire up the spirit box when Shane gives a speculative hum. “Hey. Imagine what would happen if you got locked in here. There’s no way you’d be able to escape.”

“Oh my _god,_ why are you the worst _?_ ”

“Seriously,” Shane goes on, playing his role to the hilt, “this place got hit by Hurricane Sandy and was like, whatever, I’m made of fucking granite and blood, come at me.”

Ryan jabs a finger at him. “If I don’t come out in two minutes, I’ve either passed out or been attacked by a ghost. You better save my ass or I’m haunting the fuck out of you.”

"Ghosts aren't real," Shane calls after him. 

"Your _face_ isn't real," Ryan retorts.

For the millionth time, Shane wonders how the hell he managed to fall for someone this ridiculous.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for mentions of drowning, torture, and a serial killer/rapist and his methods of choice. Don't google this dude unless you want to be thoroughly disgusted.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lasting the night on an island with nothing but Ryan, a possibly haunted lighthouse, and his own raging lack of scruples is going to be Shane's undoing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, this thing grew another chapter. See end for content notes!

It’s only five minutes.

Same playbook as ever: Ryan trying to keep his cool while he’s alone in the dark, Shane outside riling him up.

“Arrrr!” he bellows, loudly enough for Ryan to hear him from where he’s ensconced in the cellar. “It is I, a random colonial dead dude who I guess was also a pirate!”

He can imagine Ryan stifling a giggle fit and palming his face there in total darkness.

Four minutes now. Four minutes for Shane to imagine what else he might be getting up to in total darkness. Ryan has a brain full of crossed wires; what if he habitually gets worked up and turned on while he’s alone in there? A plethora of images pop-flashes through Shane’s mind: the hitch in Ryan’s breath going from panicked to desperate, the color rushing to his cheeks while he’s too swathed in shadows for any cameras to pick it up, the tremor in his hand when he switches off the camera in order to unbuckle his belt and work that hand into his pants instead.

Shane considers himself a pretty observant guy. Surely he would have noticed Ryan looking vaguely post-coital instead of post-traumatized after emerging from whatever spooky nook they’ve decided to explore. On the other hand, it’s never been something he’s deliberately thought to look for until now. He’s also never creeped on poor Ryan quite this hard before, which is a very bitter pill he’s still struggling to swallow.

There’s a yelp from inside the cellar and Shane grins in spite of himself.

He’s got the entirety of that damn Fetlife profile downloaded and saved to his mental hard drive, something that digs at him every day both as evidence of his own creepitude and because he’s constantly trying to find connections between the Ryan he knows and the Ryan who exists as smackthat000. Currently, Ryan’s membership in the BDSM SoCal group is lit up in a lurid neon. Maybe Ryan conquers his fear by thinking of it like a scene, like he’s putting his trust in someone not to hurt him even though they very easily could. Maybe he’s hoping that someday a ghost will see he’s just an earnest dork with an excess of curiosity and have a chat with him. Or maybe Ryan just really wants to fuck a ghost.

His shyness about getting it on with Mimsy in The Sims notwithstanding.

Shane gives him an extra minute in there just because he’s a jerk and he knows Ryan’s not keeping track. “Okay, time’s up!”

Ryan stumbles up the stairs, looking predictably shell-shocked. “One of the generators made a weird noise and I almost shat myself.”

“Jinkies, it’s a haunted generator, Scoob!” Shane flails in his best impression of Shaggy.

“And here I thought you were gonna congratulate me for not saying it was a ghost.” Ryan shakes his head mock-sorrowfully at Mark’s camera. “Fine, I don’t even care. Get in there and see how you like it.”

Shane dutifully takes his turn in the cellar. He spends the whole time monologuing with his habitual mix of flippancy and provocation and does not once get freaked out by anything, generators or otherwise. Mostly because he’s still wondering if Ryan was in here groping himself. But the camera doesn’t need to know that and neither does Ryan, when Shane inevitably gloats about this later.  

Unsurprisingly, they encounter exactly zero ghosts, ghouls, or disgruntled serial killers.

It doesn’t seem to matter for Ryan, who keeps up a running commentary on the hallucinogenic side effects of cabin fever, the proximity of dead bodies, and just how fucking creepy spiral staircases are. Rob and Linda indulge all his speculations and field Shane’s history nerd questions with aplomb. It’s going to be hard cutting their contributions down to bite-sized snippets once they make it back to the studio.

Dinner is a smorgasbord of camp stove cuisine. Shane’s Boy Scout background knowledge all comes flooding back to him and he turns out to be a pretty decent grillmeister if he says so himself. Devon compliments him on his potatoes and Mark keeps stealthily swiping hot dogs and Ryan just watches him with such an openly impressed look on his face it’s all Shane can do not to preen. Ryan, for all his jockish inclinations, is kind of hopeless in the great outdoors. He’s buff and sporty, but it’s the kind of buff and sporty that relies heavily on air conditioned gyms, personal trainers, and whatever food delivery discount he’s exploiting. Shane would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy getting to bask in the appreciation.

Afterward, everyone else boards the ferry back to the mainland, leaving the two of them alone to spend the night. Shane only barely resists the urge to start an off-key singalong of “My Heart Will Go On” as the water taxi churns off into the sunset.

“They just abandoned us on a deserted island,” Ryan says in disbelief, like that wasn’t the objective all along. “That is fucked _up_.”

 

* * *

 

Shane dreams.

That isn’t unusual. His subconscious likes to get creative when he’s sleeping somewhere away from home. There’s no apparent rhyme or reason to what it throws at him; one night he’ll be rescuing Vladimir Putin from the top of the Eiffel Tower and the next he’ll be judging a cupcake contest for the cast of Friends.

This time, it’s Sara, warm and real in his arms, her soft mouth on his neck and her curls brushing his nose. In his dream, Shane threads his fingers through her hair and kisses her, slow and deep, until his head swims from the sweetness of her mouth, the smoothness of her skin, and the scent of her coconut conditioner. He’s been missing her ever since they left and the lack of cell service on this island is has been making him stir crazy.

Maybe there’s a little rhyme and reason to his subconscious after all. Though if she morphs into Putin, he’s going to be pissed.

Dream-Sara does nothing of the sort. “Having a good time?” she asks, mouth curling into that impish smile he loves so much. She’s pressing a thigh between his legs that makes it difficult for dream-Shane to string words together, but he perseveres.

“Yeah, it’s been pretty fun. Ryan’s been very...Ryan.”

“Poor baby,” dream-Sara croons, and she’s definitely got her hand on his dick now that dream-Shane is suddenly naked. “Is he getting under your skin?”

“What? Nah. He’s...nah.” Even in a dream, Shane can’t think straight while he’s gasping and grinding into her touch.

“Maybe not, but I see he’s making an impression.”

And in the grand tradition of dreams supplying things that definitely didn’t exist a moment ago, there’s a mouth kissing up the back of his neck.

Dream-Shane is very accommodating of this. His back curves and his head starts to tip back, seeking out the warm, hard body molded against him from behind. At the same time, his hips judder forward, trying to work himself deeper into Sara’s fist.

“Ohhhh,” Sara breathes when he lets out a whine. “I see.”

And then she’s lifting a dark, knowing eyebrow. “Is he inside you right now?”

Ryan is snuggled up behind him, spooning him and making small, sleepy noises into the nape of Shane’s neck like he’s still got one foot in dreamland. And if that’s the case, he’s also slowly and steadily fucking his way out of sleep.

The only thing dream-Shane can do is moan, stretched wide around the thickness of his cock.

“Well?” Sara asks, tightening her hold around the base of his dick.

Ryan’s cock throbs hot and slick inside him, releases a soft pulse of precome that dream-Shane can very acutely _feel_.

“Oh my fucking god,” dream-Shane says matter-of-factly. “ _Yes_.”

Sara hums dreamily, which is a weird word for Shane to ascribe to anything happening within a dream and therefore inherently dreamy. He’s sure he’s about to kick himself awake by overthinking his own subconsciousness and then kick himself for real for fucking up such an awesome dream, but somehow he doesn’t.

And there’s Sara, curling a leg over his hip and kissing her way across his chest. “How does he feel?”

Every part of his body is incandescent. Shane can’t answer, can’t do anything but writhe and whimper and leak as Ryan fucks him with hard, full rolls of his hips, his cock bare and wet inside him.

Sara’s other hand slides behind his balls, tracing his rim where Ryan has him worked open. “Oh,” she murmurs again, pleasantly surprised, like Shane’s just brought her flowers. “He’s good, isn’t he? He must have known you wanted to fuck raw.”

“Really…’s really good, don’t stop,” he slurs, and then Sara is kissing him and Ryan’s strong arms are around him and there are two sets of hands palming his stomach, teasing his nipples into sharp points. He can’t be sure whose touch is where, not until Sara eases a fingertip inside him the slightest bit alongside Ryan’s cock, making Shane buck and cry out between the two of them.

“Do you want his come in you, baby?” Sara coos.

Shane must give some kind of answer, that’s not the kind of question you can ignore, and that’s when Ryan’s mouth parts warm and wanton against the side of Shane’s neck, his whole body trembling. All he can hear then are his own gasps as Ryan’s cock flexes weakly inside him, messy wetness smearing over his hole when he pulls out.

“Wanna suck your tits,” murmurs dream-Shane, uttering the words (which the real Shane doesn’t think he’s ever said all in the same sentence) in a low, rough voice that sounds way sexier than Shane’s sure his actual voice ever has.

But what the hell, it’s his dream, his rules, his right to give himself a sexy bedroom voice and use feminizing caveman language on his mental projection of his best friend.

Ryan’s pecs are ridiculous, supple handfuls of muscle that belong in an anatomy drawing. His skin is smooth and solid against Shane’s palms as he kneads his chest.

Sara’s mouth is back against his for a fleeting moment. “Go on, lick him,” she urges.

And then Ryan’s mouth is falling open and his head is falling back, the long line of his throat burning amber in the light.

His nipples are pleasingly sensitive, perking at the smallest brush of his thumbs. Dream-Shane is delighted, pinching them into tightness until they’re straining pink peaks and Ryan is letting out guttural, needy moans nonstop. He ducks down to taste him, lavishing each nipple with long, rough licks of his tongue. When he sucks, grazes them just a little with his teeth, Ryan lets out a whimper so desperate Shane has to pull back in sympathy.

Against his shoulder blade, he can feel Sara’s smile. “He’s so hard, baby, look at him.”

Shane’s dream is kind enough to handwave the concept of refractory periods and Ryan’s cock stands plump and rigid against his belly. Flushed dark and already damp at the tip, the swell of it hot and smooth in Shane’s loosely curled fist. Sara is kissing his back, her fingers playing between his legs where he’s still slick and sensitive.

“Please,” dream-Ryan begs, speaking for the first time. “Please, I can take it.”

Shane wakes up rutting against the mattress, his hand, the imagined firmness of Ryan’s tight little ass.

He should probably be freaking out about this.

The thing is, Shane is well past the point of freaking out over anything involving his crush. He’s learned many coping mechanisms along the way. Vivid dream about Ryan basically molesting him in his sleep? Nothing to do but sigh and clean up and try to sleep some more.

And maybe, possibly indulge a little more first.

So he lets himself imagine, face burning with lust and whatever shame he has left, if Ryan had done it. If he had fucked into him slowly and sweetly while he slept, exhaling deep sleep-heavy sighs as he took his pleasure inside him. Spilling so deep, slicking him all over inside, cleaning him up with his tongue afterward so he Shane wouldn’t wake up slick and sore in the morning, Maybe he’d reciprocate, sucking Ryan off in return, swallowing down a hot, sharp mouthful of Ryan’s come and falling back asleep.

He can hear Sara singing The Offspring in his head. _I know you wanna hit that, I know you wanna hit that…_

“Jesus.” Shane rakes a hand through his hair, grimacing at the sweatiness of it. “I’ve gotta get off this fucking island.”

But of course, there’s no answer, no witness beyond the unblinking eye of the camera he set up across the room.

Shane sighs and goes to switch it off.

 

* * *

 

Normally, he doesn’t think too hard about packing for these Unsolved overnight adventures. Clothes, toiletries, requisite ghoul-hunting gear. He’s got it pretty much down to a science by now, which makes it one of the only things about being a ghost hunter that involves science at all.

This time, Sara had lent a hand. “The rules of attraction, unlike the rules of hair care, are never simple and rarely finite,” she’d informed him, tossing a travel-sized toothpaste across the room at him and fixing him with a long-suffering stare until he acknowledged the Legally Blonde reference. “You’re gonna want to blow off steam and you’re not gonna have many options, so...”

“So what?” Shane had demanded, and she’d merrily tossed a butt plug towards him a split second later.

In his defense, he hasn’t ever brought sex toys on what technically counts as a business trip. Then again, he’s never been on any kind of trip with intimate knowledge of Ryan Bergara’s secret kinky alter ego. And this particular plug is one he knows won’t get flagged by airport security and leave him trying to sputter to TSA that it’s actually an avant-garde doorstop or something.

So even though he’d chuckled and shaken his head at the time, he hadn’t _not_ taken Sara’s suggestion.

Which is why Shane, supposedly the logical member of their little team, is on his knees in the middle of the Rochelle room’s not-nearly-big-enough cot, teeth in his lip and a hand around his dick, working a sleek silver butt plug into the expected place.

It’s true, he’s in a mild state of agony and needs something to take the edge off. And since he can’t fool around on his phone the way he usually does because there’s no service whatsoever here and entertainment options are limited...this really isn’t the most outrageous backup plan.

Sometimes Sara knows him so well it’s a little scary.

The plug is one of his favorites, thick and familiar. The last time he’d used it, Sara had slid it inside him after working him open nice and easy with a strap-on. Shane is a lot of limb to manhandle in bed, but they’ve had plenty of time to fine-tune the art of maneuvering his legs over Sara’s shoulders so she can fold him in half.

Any long-term relationship is about give and take. There are times when Shane really, really needs to take.

“I’ll fuckin’...get over it or whatever,” Shane had sighed, half breathless from frustration and need.

“If you say so,” Sara had answered generously, dropping a kiss on his nose. “But for now, it’s okay to admit you’d totally fuck him if he was down for it. Or maybe he’d want to fuck you first. Take you apart good and slow, just like this.” She’d thoughtfully nudged the dildo another inch or two deeper, making Shane clutch at the covers and moan. “Look at you, baby, of course he’d want you if he knew.”

“It’d be so much easier if he didn’t, though.” Even then, Shane had been a little impressed with himself for being able to hold an actual conversation. “I mean, it’d be even better if I didn’t. I’m not supposed to want anyone else when I’ve got you.”

“Good thing no one’s saying you have to choose.” Sara had given a lazy thrust of her slim hips, the harness’s dark straps a striking contrast against her skin. “Sometimes you just need to eat some pussy. Or get rammed by your sexy coworker’s muscly dick. Or both at the same time, why the heck not?”

“I don’t think his dick has a six-pack.”

“Prove it.” She’d smiled sweetly. “Then report back.”

That’s what he thinks of now, bringing himself right up to the edge of coming. Hunched over himself, grinding down against the plug and fucking his hand until he aches. Even with his mind full of Ryan and his proclivities, it all comes back to Sara just as intensely.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he’d murmured into her hair, sliding into her from behind while the plug filled him so perfectly, shifting inside him with maddening precision. He’d spilled into the heat of Sara’s cunt that way, using the bullet vibe from the strap-on against her clit until she was shaking and sweat-dappled and just as wrung-out as he was.

Shane tips over the edge with a broken-off moan, clenching rhythmically around the plug, spattering his fist and belly with come.

By the time he’s wiped himself off with his boxers and fumbled his phone into his other hand, it’s still only 2:35.

Shane was sort of hoping that getting off would knock him out. More often than not, it leaves him sleepy and content, all his problems looming a little smaller than they did before. This, because luck has completely forsaken him, is shaping up to be one of the rare exceptions to the rule. He still feels feverish, the echoes of the dream ringing through his body along with the hazy afterglow of his orgasm.

He eases the plug out, hooks his pajama pants back on, and wonders how the fuck he’s supposed to last until sunrise.

 

* * *

 

There’s a logic to what he does next, though future-Shane will be hard pressed to remember it.

Fresh air is high on the list of ways to relax, almost as high on Shane’s personal list as a really good orgasm. Since he’s already ticked that one off, he opts for the next best thing: slips on his shoes, slips down the stairs, and slips around the perimeter of the island like a brooding Byronic hero in too-short flannel PJ pants.

It’s chillier than he expected outside. The stone walls of the keeper’s house have done a great job sheltering them from just how brutal the wind is, ripping over Long Island Sound with a cold ferocity that takes Shane’s breath away.

He’s sure Ryan would tease him with gusto if he knew Shane was out here shivering. But Ryan is inside fast asleep like a normal person on a normal ghost hunting expedition and Shane has every intention of making sure he stays that way. If he so much as looks at Ryan’s window too long, there’s a pretty good chance Ryan will spring out of bed and start spirit boxing his way through every inch of the house.

Shane determinedly does not look at Ryan’s window at all.

The water leaps over the rocks in a white-frothed rage. Shane slides his sneakers off and steps a little closer, ignoring the sharp bite of pebble-strewn sand against his feet.

He thinks of Linda, telling them how it supposedly took hours to slowly drown out here during the American Revolution. How the British didn’t give a single shit about the colonists, so the bodies would be left on the rocks to rot. Even if there’s no proof it ever happened, there’s no proof the water _isn’t_ full of skeletons either. Shane is still pretty pumped about that possibility, from a purely historical standpoint.

It’s chilly enough that he can barely feel the tips of his nose fingers and fingers, but Shane eases himself down onto one of the less lethal-looking rocks anyway. Against his better judgment, he dangles his feet over the edge of it, lets the ocean lick at his legs until the sheer bone-cutting cold makes all the breath gust out of him.

If this doesn’t make him appreciate his nice cozy cot and instantly snuggle his way back to sleep, nothing will.

Then he tries to stand up, stumbles over his half-numb feet, and falls in.

For a petrified, eternal moment, all Shane can think is that there really is going to be a skeleton stuck on the rocks.

Fortunately, the water is shallow enough that drowning in it would just be embarrassing. Every muscle screams in protest when he wrenches himself back to the shore, but Shane manages.

He’s soaking wet and shivering nonstop as he creeps back into the keeper’s house. The door creaks shut behind him with an unnecessary amount of volume. Shane cringes and waits, but somehow it doesn’t rouse Ryan.

He tiptoes back upstairs, dripping all over the iron staircase with every step. To his own ears, it’s unbearable and he sounds like a walking hailstorm. Any second now, Ryan’s going to wander out and try to hose him down with holy water.

He doesn’t.

Shane is about to silently celebrate how well he’s managed to sneak in without being detected, so naturally that’s when he stubs his toe on the topmost step.

And howls bloody murder.

An answering shriek rings out almost immediately.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Shane says, and almost passes out on the spot before he remembers exactly who he’s stuck on this island with.

Inevitably, Ryan comes tearing into the hallway with a severe case of bed-head and a flashlight in hand, probably thinking he’s heard an invading ghost army.

“What the hell, dude, were you sleepwalking? Why are you wet?”

“I...needed some air,” Shane says lamely. His brain still feels like its dissolving by the second and there’s a strange floral scent lingering around them, probably from a sachet of especially cloying potpourri stashed away somewhere.

Ryan looks at him, skeptical with a distinct crust of judgment. “Uh-huh. You could’ve opened a window, you know.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Shane snaps. “I got claustrophobic, so I went outside. And I slipped. Turns out there’s not a lot of walking space out there.”

And Ryan just has to pick his brain about it because Ryan is chronically incapable of letting anything go. “Yeah, but _why_ did you decide to go outside? Did you, like...see something? Of course you didn’t, you're you, but did something maybe make you feel strange? Did you hear the sea calling to you? Do you remember what exactly made you feel claustrophobic?”

Shane is overwhelmed and frustrated and still absolutely fucking drenched, so he grumbles, “I was having a sex dream,” just to shut him up.

It works very well for all of two seconds.

Ryan stares at him with huge eyes. “Oh. Okay. So, ah, do those normally make you throw yourself in the ocean?”

“Sometimes they make me throw myself in the shower, but I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“Ah.” Ryan nods sagely. “Nice job.”

“Thanks.” Shane tries very hard not to snarl the word.

“You’re gonna die of hypothermia,” Ryan yelps, as if he’s just realized the extent of Shane’s predicament. “Holy crap, I’m gonna get you something to change into and, and, and a towel. And there’s no shower, but you should see if you can fit into that old-school bathtub, okay?”

One-handed, he propels Shane towards the bathroom.

Shane doesn’t have the heart to argue with him. And at this point, a bath doesn’t sound terrible, and if he’s going to drown it might as well be in a tub of soothing hot water.

He’s buck naked and crunched as comfortably as possible into the half-full tub when Ryan comes thundering back in.

“Hey, I got your hoodie and some more pajama pants. Oh, and socks. I didn’t see any in your room, so I grabbed some of mine. They should fit your massive feet, right? I never heard of anyone busting the seams out of a pair of socks, but if anyone’s gonna do it, I mean...”

It’s a torrent of classic Ryan babble, the kind that normally pours out when he’s talking himself through something potentially traumatizing. He’s babbling and red-faced and studiously avoiding Shane’s eyes and none of that makes sense unless Shane looks particularly horrifying squeezed into a claw-footed bathtub.

Shane’s about to ask what the hell is going on with him when suddenly it occurs to him.

He left a butt plug in his bed. Just chilling out in the open. Didn’t even flick a sheet over it before he went outside because why would he?

There’s no coming back from this. He should never have gone outside, never have pulled himself back off the rocks, never have brought a goddamn sex toy on an Unsolved trip, never have nurtured any kind of crush on Ryan whatsoever.

He might as well spill the whole story.

Shane submerges himself as much as he’s able, letting the near scalding water wash over him. “Ryan,” he says wearily. “I know you saw. Just ask.”

“Ask?” Ryan sputters. “Ask what?”

“C’mon, Mr. Smack That, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

He wants to die as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Ryan goes completely still.

“Shane,” he says, very quietly.

And then nothing. He just waits.

And that’s worse, Ryan not saying anything at all, just staring at him with huge, hurt eyes and tension etched all over his face.

“It was an accident.” The truth comes tumbling out before Shane can catch it. “We were at my place doing lighthouse research and I opened the wrong tab while you were in the bathroom. I...I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

“And then you were scarred for life and never looked it up again. Right?”

There’s a pathetic thread of hope in Ryan’s voice. But Shane can’t lie. “No.”  

Ryan doesn’t need to know the extent of his depravity, but Shane might as well have said it all: how he’s pulled Ryan’s profile up so many times he has it memorized, how he’s shared it with Sara, how they’ve both speculated over him like a piece of meat. And of course this is all coming to a head when he’s naked in the world’s most uncomfortable bathtub while they’re spending the night in the ultimate phallic symbol, a big gay lighthouse once frequented by a big gay serial killer.

It’s such a complex layer cake of awkwardness that Shane has half a mind to throw back his head and laugh.

Except Ryan is there, looking like he’s just been slapped, but not in a fun sexy way. Not even a little. He looks betrayed.

“So,” Ryan says finally. His voice is calm now, but brittle as glass. “You invaded my privacy, what, just to treat it like a big joke? You’re a smart guy. You knew that wasn’t something you were supposed to see and you just had to make it your business anyway.”

Shane swallows, his throat sawdust-coated with dread. “I said I was sorry.”

Now Ryan can’t seem to stop looking him dead in the eye and Shane desperately wishes he would. But Ryan just keeps at it, taking him in as if he’s never really seen Shane up until now. “You’re not entitled to know about this part of my life, or any part of my life.”

The worst place to be having this conversation is on an island with no cell service in the middle of the night with no one but each other for company. And maybe some ghosts. He misses Sara so acutely it hurts.

Shane opens his mouth and finds he has no idea what to say.

“I can’t,” Ryan says. His voice breaks off, forehead creasing.

And then he shakes his head and walks out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shane's subconscious is a decadent place to be and many of the new tags reflect things that occur in Shane's dream: the Shyanara configuration, the somnophilia of Ryan fucking him while half asleep, the barebacking. Stuff that does NOT occur in Shane's dream includes an ill-advised jerkoff session involving a butt plug, an even more ill-advised confrontation with Ryan, several melodramatic thoughts about drowning, and memories of getting pegged by Sara.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! Life keeps on happening (I was blessed with catching a fabulous death flu twice in rapid succession), and I feel guilty for letting this go un-updated for so long. The final chapter is also shaping up to be longer than planned, so I'm posting this as an interlude in the meantime.

“Sara,” Shane whispers. “Shit, Sara, I fucked up. It’s bad.”

They’ve been back on the mainland since dawn. He and Ryan have avoided speaking more than monosyllables to each other by virtue of lack of sleep and lingering queasiness from the ferry. At least, that’s what Shane is content to let everyone else believe.

Shane’s first act upon regaining cell service was to text Sara _I fucked up. Will call you when I can_. He immediately regretted it because it resulted in a deluge of concerned texts he hasn’t had nearly enough time to answer with the detail they deserve.

But now that they’re all checked into JFK and there’s another hour and a half before their flight leaves for Maryland, Shane is taking advantage. While everyone else is trying to figure out where the nearest Shake Shack is, he makes an excuse about being too exhausted to eat and breaks away from the rest of the group before TJ can challenge him on that. Devon just raises her brows. Mark gives him a nod.

Ryan, notably, doesn’t respond at all.

“I’m gonna, uh, find one of those massage chairs,” Shane says, trying to sound casual and not like his world is imploding one atom at a time.

Then, just to put a foolproof amount of distance between Ryan and himself, he hops the shuttle to a completely different terminal and spends a frustrating amount of time battling with crappy airport wifi to see if there are any lounges he can buy his way into. Apparently most of them require memberships or proof that you’re flying a certain airline, probably so the average pleb can’t just roll up and mingle with the real card-carriers. Shane, a taller-than-average pleb on the verge of shattering into a thousand anxiety-ridden pieces, resents this greatly.

JFK is an infamous traffic jam of an airport, but like hell is he having this conversation in public. He’ll find someplace with at least a semblance of privacy if he has to hide under a table.

It doesn’t come to that, thankfully. Shane just isn’t built for hiding under tables, or rather, most tables aren’t built with him in mind. What he ends up doing is staking out a few seats outside a British Airways gate where the passenger waiting area is completely vacant. The next flight isn’t for several hours and he’s banking on any roving Brits being stereotypically aloof enough to not plunk down beside him.

Then he calls Sara.

It’s awful. The instant he hears her voice, his tenuous self-control breaks into hairline cracks. He forces out those first few words, and then there’s too much guilt lodged in his throat for him to talk at all.

“Babe, it’s okay,” Sara says softly. “Whatever happened, it’s gonna be okay.”

It takes forever for Shane to calm himself down enough to answer, and even then he’s half expecting his voice to crack along with the rest of him. “He knows.”

There’s a pause. He can imagine her pressing a hand over her mouth to keep from gasping or blurting out anything that might make him feel even worse. “Oh…wow.”

“I just kinda let something slip out, I wasn’t even thinking, and now he thinks I’m the biggest creep. He isn’t even talking to me.”

“Shane. Baby.” Her voice is soothing and sweet and it’s almost enough to make Shane believe she’s there, ready to let him wrap around her and bury his face against her neck. “You need to try and talk to him then.”

“No.” The airport is so sterile and she’s so far away and Shane is falling apart. He can’t make it through another lighthouse ghost hunt, not with things between him and Ryan all jagged and ugly like this. “I can’t.”

She must sense the desperation in his voice because she doesn’t ask him to explain why. “It’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay. I’m right here.”

But she’s not, and it hurts. “Fuck...I just. I want to come home.”

He hates how pitiful he sounds, like he’s on the verge of drawing his knees up to his chin and rocking back and forth until the rest of the world disappears. It’s not an unappealing idea.

“I know, baby,” she says gently. Shane wants more than anything to feel her arms around him, small but strong in their own right. “But you can’t. You’ve got a job to do first. This is your big lighthouse double-header and you’re already halfway done. You can handle the rest just fine, I promise.”

Shane laughs hollowly. “I really, really don’t think I can.”

“You can.” Sara’s tone is firmer now. “And you’ll be done with this by tomorrow and then you’ll come home and I’ll take care of you. You’ll have wifi and 4G this time, right? So call me or text me anytime you need to. Do you want to talk some more about it now?”

Shane tells her everything.

He doesn’t plan to, because there’s no point in laying his grievances on Sara when they’re all his fault and there’s nothing she can do about them. But something about Sara tends to put the methodical part of his brain on mute, or at least significantly lower its volume. He ends up explaining about the plug and the midnight dip in the Sound and Ryan trying to look after him and Shane just shitting all over it. Not once does anyone try to sit near him, either because they’re too polite or because they can sense he’s in a state of distress.

“Any final thoughts?” he asks, once he’s said all he can think to say and is a little giddy with it. Spilling very intimate details of his personal life in an airport isn’t really his thing.

There’s a long pause on Sara’s end.

“Be extra nice to Ryan. Tell him you’re sorry.” She hesitates. “Tell him we’re both sorry.”

To Shane, it’s like getting a kick in the ribs and a kiss on the cheek at the same time. “I guess I should, huh.”

“You should,” Sara tells him with certainty. “Think you’re ready to not miss your flight now? You’re kind of cutting it close.”

“I wouldn’t say _no_ to missing it,” Shane admits. There’s a certain appeal to just...completely avoiding confrontation for as long as he can.

“You’ll have to deal with finance if you do,” Sara says ominously. “You know what, forget I even framed that as a question. Get on your plane, call me when you land, and try not to freak out. Got it?”

There’s a new lightness to Shane’s chest, like she’s somehow reached across the country and lifted a weight off him. “Got it. Love you.”

Almost immediately after he says goodbye to Sara, Mark texts him. _Hey everyone’s looking for you. Did you go to terminal 3?_

 _Yeah_ , Shane texts back

_Lies. there is no terminal 3 at jfk._

Shane winces. _I needed some space. Had to talk to Sara_

Mark’s three dots linger for quite a while, but when his next message pops up it’s nothing more than _U ok?_

 _Getting there,_ Shane replies. For the first time, it occurs to him that maybe Ryan needed someone to confide in too, and Mark is as taciturn and nonjudgmental as they come.

_Just get back to the gate cause we board in 15_

_K, thanks. Can’t believe you pulled that Mean Girls “oh the back building burned down in 1998” thing on me btw_

_1987,_ Mark texts back within two seconds. _You heathen._

For the first time that day, Shane smiles.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our intrepid heroes finally have a much-needed chat, it's a miracle. Thanks for your patience and for your awesome feedback!

The Point Lookout lighthouse is downright homey compared to Execution Rocks.

They get into the Salisbury airport by eleven and have to rental car it the rest of the way. Shane hesitates before taking his usual shotgun spot, unsure if Ryan is willing to tolerate front-seat proximity from him. They’re a stone’s throw from the lights and enticements of Ocean City; it’s not too late for him to make a break for it and start a new life after all.

Reluctantly, he slides into the passenger’s seat.

Ryan gives him a nod. “Got enough leg room there?”

He sounds perfectly normal. For one wild second, Shane wonders if everything that happened last night was just a particularly vivid dream. Then Ryan turns to adjust the rearview mirror and there it is: a faint tightness in his jaw, completely invisible to the untrained eye.

When it comes to Ryan, Shane’s eyes are both very acutely trained.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, all potential wisecracks withering in the back of his throat. “I’m good.”

In no time, they’re on the road and Mark is knitting, TJ is dozing, and Devon is revoltingly awake.

“What’s up with you?” she asks, after Shane yawns for the thousandth time. “I know you got about two minutes of sleep last night, but normally you pass out on the plane.”

Shane gives a halfhearted shrug. “Guess my system’s more out of whack than usual.”

There’s a look on Devon’s face he’s not sure he likes. “What happened, did you join the mile-high club on the way here?” she quips.

“Shane’s a member of the mile-high club just by existing,” Ryan interjects.

It’s so unexpected and, again, so _natural_ sounding that Shane can’t hold back a bark of laughter. If Ryan’s willing to banter, maybe things aren’t so weird between them after all. At least, as long as Shane ignores the part where this is literally their job and it’s possible Ryan’s just trying to be professional, he can almost make himself believe it.  

Unfortunately, Ryan barely speaks a word to him, banter or otherwise, until they’ve pulled up to Point Lookout itself. The lighthouse keeper’s house is a squat little building with cheerful red awnings, situated on the pencil-thin tip of the peninsula. Above it, the lighthouse itself protrudes from the roof, looking more like the turret of a kid’s playhouse than anything else.

“Well, this is charming as balls,” TJ declares. “I’d totally hang out here if I had to pick a spot to spend my afterlife. Or a honeymoon or something.”

Mark is slightly more critical. “If you want a haunted honeymoon, yeah. How many ghosts are there supposed to be here again?”

“None, because ghosts aren’t real,” Shane says automatically.

But Ryan doesn’t rise to the bait at all, which is more alarming than any ghost could ever be.

By the time they’ve unpacked their equipment and the rest of the team is setting up cameras in the Point Lookout cupola, Shane is about to leap out of his own skin with anxiety.

“Hey. Ryan,” he starts, not caring how plaintive he might sound, but Ryan has him falling silent with a look.

“We’ve got a couple hours before we’re supposed to interview the guide. I want to get some footage of the area while it’s light out.”

Shane waits, uncertain if this is a brushoff or an invitation. “Yeah. Okay. Go explore those creepy beaches and, uh, have a ball.”

“It’s not just creepy beaches.” Ryan glances up, a a quick flicker of direct eye contact that hits Shane like the snap of a whip. “There might be some Civil War forts down the road. If you’re a huge nerd who’s into that kind of thing, I mean.”

More than anything, Shane wishes they could sit down and make stupid jokes over a Bigfoot burger and forget any of this awkwardness ever happened. But as far as second choices go, this one isn’t too bad. Could, in fact, be a whole lot worse.

He pretends to consider this for a minute. “Well, I do enjoy long walks on the beach.”

Ryan snorts, not unkindly. “Shut up and come on before I change my mind.”

 

* * *

 

Objectively speaking, even without the added enticement of ghoul-hunting, they’re in a very striking part of the state.

Shane can’t help turning around to get a few panoramic pictures as they make their way up the coastline, caught between sky and sea as they pick their path along a thin crescent of sand. Ryan alternates between shooting indulgent looks his way and suspicious looks at the huge piles of striated rocks between them and the water.

“Are you gonna start singing The Sound of Music now?” he asks, when Shane pauses to lift his camera and move in another slow circle.

Shane smiles, dizzy with hope more than spinning. “Y’know, I’ve been thinking we could do a musical episode sometime. Maybe we could do an Unsolved remix of some classics.” He doesn’t mention that he actually has considered this, singing abilities be damned. Ryan has some musical indiscretions in his past, he’d totally be down for it if Shane pitched it to him right. “‘The hills are alive with the sound of ghosties,’ something like that.”

The squint Ryan levels him with is equal parts indulgent and disbelieving. “Or like, ‘high on a hill was a lonely lighthouse’ and then we edit in some sweet yodeling tracks.”

The tightness in Shane’s chest tentatively unwinds itself just a tad more. “Yeah, and for the last scene we can do ‘so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen--’”

“Fuck yoooooouuuuu,” Ryan interrupts, entirely too pleased with himself. It’s chilly out and he’s bright-eyed and pink-cheeked in a way that makes Shane wary of looking at him for too long, in case he can’t tear his eyes away and comes off as even more of a creeper than he already has.

He forces his gaze onto an especially misshapen rock instead. “I didn’t know you were a fan of Rodgers and Hammerstein.”

Ryan huffs. “Who the fuck are they? Everything I know about The Sound of Music comes from Gwen Stefani and Ariana Grande.”

And just like that, Shane heaves the first full breath he’s been able to draw since toppling into Long Island Sound and exhales it in a genuine bark of a laugh. While his courage is up, he goes all in. “Um, so, can we talk about--”

“No.”

Shane can’t move, can barely even remember how to breathe despite being so grateful for it just seconds ago. It’s as if Ryan picked up one of the armchair-sized rocks and plunked it down on top of him.

Ryan sighs, not looking at him. “You’ve had a long time to process this shit. I haven’t.”

Shane’s eyebrow twitches. “Oh. Fair.”

“Let’s go check out one of these dumb forts first, okay?” Ryan shoves his hands in his coat pockets, offering him a rueful half-smile and a rickety truce, which is arguably more than he deserves. “Then ask me again. Not saying I’ll be ready, but like...you kinda dropped a bomb on me last night, man.”

If there was ever going to be any kind of detente, Shane realizes, it had to come from Ryan--and Ryan was under no obligation whatsoever to provide it. This is definitely, definitely more than he deserves.

”Forts are not dumb,” he says, mock-offended, and fiddles with his camera before his hands can do anything stupid like try to interlace with Ryan’s.

“Prove it.”

“Okay, how’s this? I researched some stuff too, and Point Lookout had more Confederate POWs than any other place during the Civil War.”

Ryan yawns theatrically.

“Over fifty thousand, but no one knows for sure how many.” Shane gazes into the distance in what he hopes is a serene and mysterious way but probably just makes him look punchable as fuck. “At least four thousand of them died. That’s a lot of potential ghosts wandering around, if you believe in stuff like that. This place is more than a lighthouse, baby.”

He has to force himself not to wince as soon as the words leave his mouth, but if Ryan has any sudden reservations about being called baby he doesn’t show it.

“Whatever,” is all he says, brushing sand off his peacoat. “It can’t be more full of rude awakenings than the last place.”

It takes Shane a minute to process that, and once he does he has no clue how to respond. Regurgitation of various Wikipedia pages is a perfectly valid coping mechanism, so he goes for it. “The, um, the prisoners only had tents for protection, which really fucking sucked because the camp would flood all the time and it was freezing in winter. And then either you or your tent mates would have smallpox or dysentery or whatever and the high point of your day would probably be catching a rat for extra food.”

Ryan’s brows slant upward ever so slightly. “That so?”

“Very so. Wanna hear about the latrine situation?”

“Not even a little bit,” Ryan says brightly. “Now shut up and let’s enjoy this ghoul-infested landscape.”

 

* * *

 

The two of them keep following the curve of the coast until the lighthouse fades into the horizon behind them. As the peninsula widens, pine trees and picnic tables start to pop up with increasing frequency. The sky overhead is beaten tin, thick with clouds and foreboding. There’s a gauzy mist coming in from the water and Shane gets some good footage of Ryan standing amidst it while gesturing dramatically at the No Lifeguard on Duty sign.

As soon as the first hint of a pathway appears, Shane lopes away from the beach and triumphantly reacquaints himself with solid ground. There are worse things than trudging through the sand until his calf muscles complain nonstop, but it’s been getting hard to think of any. Ryan, of course, seems totally chill about it and might even be enjoying the extra cardio like the weirdo he is.

And off goes Shane’s brain again, reminding him just how built Ryan is thanks to all that cardio. He tries not to mentally flip through Ryan’s nudes, but that neural pathway is too well-traveled to shut down.

If Ryan, completely oblivious to Shane’s wanton objectification, is pointing at the picnic area with glee. “Dude, we’ve got a whole graveyard of grills up here. They look like they’re in prison.”

It’s a weirdly spot-on observation. Each grill is covered with a bright orange plastic covering that’s probably just meant to protect it during the off season but really does resemble a miniature prison jumpsuit. Combined with the weather and the complete lack of other people, there’s kind of an apocalyptic vibe to the whole thing.

“I feel like maybe we just stumbled into a Walking Dead episode.”

“If this fort is full of zombies, I’m so leaving you behind,” Ryan says lightly, bounding ahead on the puddle-smeared asphalt path.

Right on cue, the whitewashed fence of the fort’s entrance comes into view, looking ghostly as fuck in all the mist. Ryan skids to a stop so suddenly it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall over. “Shit!”

Tenderness tugs at Shane’s chest and he ignores it as ruthlessly as he can. Fortunately, there are signs he can read instead of blurting out anything ridiculous.

“So it says here they built the forts to defend against Confederates trying to sneak in and free the prisoners. This is all reconstruction, though, aside from the earthen walls. That’s all original.”

“I guess that explains this, huh.” Ryan snorts and nods towards a Please Keep Off Walls sign. “Did anyone actually escape this place?”

“Not many.”

They meander through the fort at their own pace, Ryan stopping to take in a massive heap of firewood piled alongside the guard house, Shane wandering ahead to check out the officers’ barracks. It’s chilly, the edges of winter clutching stubbornly at the coast, and he lingers inside for a few minutes, running his finger along the edge of a backgammon table and trying to tell himself it’s just because of the wind, not because he feels calmer inside and away from Ryan.

They literally bump back into each other as Shane is picking his way around a puddle between the guard house and one of the barracks. Ryan just goes for it, getting a running start and leaping over the narrowest part of it, landing solidly on the soles of his ghoul-boots with a grin.

Shane can’t help grinning back. “Ten out of ten for artistic merit and sticking the landing,” he proclaims, and promptly loses his balance and has to regain it by flailing out for Ryan’s shoulders.

“Dunno if you’re really the best judge of that, pal.”

“What, sticking it?” Shane says automatically.

But Ryan doesn’t laugh. Instead, Ryan turns to him, jaw set, hands shoved into his pockets. “Okay, so on that note, I’m ready to do this. So. Tell me what you want to talk about.”

Shane opens his mouth and the clouds choose that moment to open too.

 

* * *

 

It takes all of ten seconds to leap into the nearest barracks and half that time to drench them both.

“Shit,” Ryan says mildly.

With a sigh, Shane shucks out of his coat and spreads it out on one of the dingy bench tables to maybe possibly dry. “Yep.”

“Did you learn to control the weather just because you don’t want to talk about this?”

There’s a quirk at the corner of Ryan’s mouth as he peels off his own coat and hangs it over one of the three-tiered bunk beds lining the walls. His bangs are plastered to his forehead, making Shane want to slide his fingers through them until he’s cupping Ryan’s skull, then tilt him into a rain-glazed kiss.

Fortunately, Ryan’s moving on before Shane has to choke out an answer. “You think they have any umbrellas in there? We’ve gotta be back in an hourish.”

Shane follows his gaze to the closet alcove across the barracks. “Cool, let’s open the mysterious door while we’re all alone out here.”

Ryan’s smirk ticks into a full-on smile. “Sometimes I wonder if you fully understand what we do for a living. Come on, let’s get it on camera. Might as well, right?”

Shane obligingly films the whole affair as they walk to the other side of the barracks. It’s a gigantic building, capable of housing two hundred soldiers who slept two to a bed in their triple-stacked bunks, like the most rustic college dorm ever. He can’t help skimming the informational plaque riveted to the wall; anything to take his mind of real life. Shane gets a nice slow pan around the place, lingering on the high ceilings with their exposed spiderwebbed rafters, then dropping back to to Ryan looking small and determined in front of the closet door.

“Okay, here goes,” Ryan mutters, apparently talking to the door now. “Please don’t be full of bats.”

In one movement, he wrenches the door open and leaps backward in what can only be described as a Power Ranger move. Whatever else happens on their wild lighthouse adventure, at least they’ll have some fun footage to edit later on. Assuming they’re still friends and Shane hasn’t fucked everything up forever.

Anxiety swells in Shane’s stomach all over again.

Ryan, oblivious, is stepping further into the storage area. The contents are disappointing, especially after all that buildup. When Ryan uses his phone flashlight to scan the dusty shelves it turns up nothing but shovels, brooms, more firewood, and a huge dented can of what, upon closer inspection, turns out to be condensed milk with a label dated 1868.

“Dude, that could be haunted!” Ryan yelps when Shane, heedless, reaches past him to pick it up.

“Do you just think all old things are haunted?”

Ryan squares his shoulders and says nothing.

“Why the hell is this just hanging out here?” Shane studies the label more closely. He sounds impressively casual, if he says so himself. “Not to get all Indiana Jones, but shouldn’t it be in a museum?”

“Yeah, the haunted canned goods museum,” Ryan snorts. “Okay, so no bats, ghouls, or umbrellas and it’s still fucking pouring. Let’s...quit filming and talk or whatever. ”

Shane freezes, rain-spattered and unsure where to begin.

Ryan, for better or worse, seems willing to play twenty questions. “You okay? You do still wanna discuss this, right?” he asks, looking lost.

Shane’s throat might as well be lodged with a splintery knot of rope. It’s either talk to Ryan or club him over the head with a possibly haunted can of condensed milk from 1868. He nods.

“Right,” Ryan says on an outbreath, like he’s coaching himself through this. “So, like, why are you all self destructive?”

With a sigh, Shane puts the can back on its shelf and sinks onto a bench beside the nearest table. Outside the stark sash windows, rain streams down in silver sheets. Making their way back to the lighthouse is going to suck. “Going straight for the jugular, huh? I don’t know what to tell you, Ryan. Self-destructive might be a little strong, though. Bringing that...that thing was pretty dumb but I don’t think it’s gonna get me fired or anything.”

Ryan groans. “I’m not talking about what you do with your ass, I’m talking about you walking your ass into the sea like a...a Viking widow or some shit.”

Shane swallows. “I needed to--to think.”

“You could’ve _died_ , you fucking idiot,” Ryan explodes, so suddenly it makes Shane wince. “You went onto the rocks, which could have had snakes or some shit living in them, you freaking fell in the water where you could’ve hit your head or drowned or frozen before you got back in, and I wouldn’t have known until I found you in the morning.”

“I know. That was stupid of me. I’ve been doing a lot of stupid things lately.”

“Don’t try and get all aw-shucks with me. I’m still pissed at you, but that doesn’t mean I want you dead.”

Because Shane is a cliche of himself by now, the most maudlin of The National’s impressively maudlin oeuvre start a tragic mash-up in his mind. _I don’t know how to do this. You made a slow disaster out of me. I know this changes everything. I don't wanna get over you. Love will lead us all to smithereens. I’m so sorry for everything._

_I’m so sorry for everything._

Ryan is still going, wound up and gorgeous in his vehemence. “What if you got swept out to sea or some shit and no one ever found you? I’ve been thinking of all these worst case scenarios and it just makes me even more pissed at you because, like,  I’m glad you’re still here but I’m supposed to be mad at you. You know what I mean? You could’ve seriously hurt yourself and then I would’ve been alone on that fucking island freaking out and it would’ve been my responsibility because I’m the one who wanted to go lighthouse-hopping in the first place.”

Inside Shane’s head, the guilt and the volume ramp up a few more levels. “It wouldn’t have been your fault. Nothing about this is your fault.” His voice has been eroded down to a hush of itself, mingling with the rush of the rain.

“Okay, great,” Ryan concedes. “Good to know. Now let’s switch gears. You said I should just ask, so I'm asking. Why the _fuck_ would you bring that with you? Do you always do this? You know this is a work trip, right?” There’s a mixture of frustration and curiosity threaded through Ryan’s words and probably his face as well. Shane can’t say for sure because he’s dropped his own into his hands.

“Believe me, I know,” Shane sighs. “And no, I don’t, but this time I weighed my options very carefully.”

“Yeah, and you brought it with you anyway. So why? What kind of options did you need to consider that led to this?”

“I needed to keep my mind off stuff.”

Ryan slides onto the bench across from him, a knife-cut of confusion forming on his forehead. “So. Wait. You had a sex dream, then actually _told_ me you had one, and got yourself off with a sex toy you randomly decided to bring because of reasons. And all you’re saying now is it’s because of _stuff._ ” Ryan might be a recovering bro who believes in ghosts, but he’s far from stupid. “Shane, man, there are too many weird variables here to not be connected. You wanna explain?”

“Not really,” Shane admits.

“Well, good thing I don’t care,” Ryan says with false breeziness, which Shane supposes is apropos. “So. What the heck was that sex dream about?”

“Oh, you know.” Shane forces a chuckle. “Getting pounded, like ya do. Sara.”

Ryan’s eyes widen ever so slightly. “She must struggle in that department.”

“Actually she does just fine,” Shane responds, trying to sound like this is no big deal when it might, in fact, be the very biggest of deals. “It was her idea to bring it.”

“You mean she--” Ryan starts.

“Nope. My turn to ask. You know something embarrassing about me, I know something about you.” It doesn't even the scales, but Shane's mind is trying hard to find an equivalency. "How did you know you were into...y'know?"

He sounds twelve.

This isn't lost on Ryan, who slides him a sardonic look. "You’ve gotta be a little more detailed."

“Never mind,” Shane mutters. “Sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“I don't, but I will, because it's you," says Ryan, taking pity on him. "Same way you did, probably. You get curious, you see some porn, you think huh, this could be a fun thing, so you try it and it is.”

“You're not, like, going to fetish clubs and worried about someone selling a story to Vice about how Ryan Bergara of critically acclaimed YouTube documentary Buzzfeed Unsolved is into getting peed on while he barks like a dog?”

“Not into either of those things, but your concern is overwhelming. And I thought I was being pretty careful, but guess that turned out not to be true.”

“I don’t want you getting hurt,” Shane says, hating how paternalistic he sounds.

“Infantalization isn’t one of my kinks either, man,” Ryan replies, a laugh in his voice. “Mostly I’ll just chat with someone, then maybe meet in person to see if we’re a good fit, and if there’s no red flags we just take it from there. Sometimes I’ll go to meetups where you’re not allowed to have phones out. Anonymity is a big deal. So,” he adds pointedly, “is not making fun of people because of what they’re into."

Shane lifts his head. “It was never about making fun of you. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“Because you thought I was gonna get hurt?”

He can’t be this dense. “No, Ryan, not because of that.”

And he waits for the penny to drop.

It doesn’t. Not quite.

Then there’s a slow, stricken understanding in Ryan’s eyes. “Shane...oh, man...you’ve got a girlfriend.”

Of all things to hone in on. It’s almost adorable, Ryan springing immediately to Sara’s defense.  

“I know.” Shane swears he hears his voice crack, because why wouldn’t it? Everything else is going wrong. “I can’t talk about this anymore. I need her.”

“Not an excuse. You don’t get to wuss out because your emotional support girlfriend isn’t here.” Ryan takes out his phone. “If that’s how it’s gonna be, then let’s just call her.”

He’s clearly waiting for Shane to protest. “Yeah, okay,” Shane says.

“Really?”

“She knows,” Shane mumbles.

“Knows what?”

There’s no point in trying to hide the truth anymore. His dignity has been sliding towards chaos far too long to be salvaged. That's just the way life has worked for Shane ever since he first realized Ryan had the power to knock him over with nothing but a smile. Like the world shifted direction and the stars aligned and everything in the heavens just went, “Y'know what, Madej? Fuck you.”

“Everything,” he says. “She knows everything.”

Ryan looks resolute. “I’m gonna put her on speaker.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Ryan,” Sara says, calm and a little wary.

“Hey. Are you busy?”

“Nope, I’ve got a cat sitting on my stomach so I’m basically a prisoner.”

“Awesome. You’re on speaker, just so you know.”

“I’m working from home and Obi can take it. What’s up?”

“Not much. Your boyfriend and I have been walking on the beach and sharing our feelings.”

Sara’s _awwwww_ is probably audible across the state.

“You might want to hold that,” Ryan tells her, casting a grim look in Shane’s direction. “‘Cause now I’m with Shane in an abandoned fort during a downpour and I think he’s gonna have a meltdown. Which is really kind of rude since I’m the one whose private life isn’t so private anymore.”

“Yeah, I know. He had that sexy dream about you and it hit a little too close to home.”

“He _what_?” Ryan shrieks, turning accusing eyes on Shane. “You said it was about Sara!”

“I didn’t say that’s _all_ it was about,” Shane sputters.

“Oh,” Sara says. She doesn’t sound quite so calm anymore. “Fuck. Let’s back up. No, it wasn’t just about me. Shane, baby? You wanna tell him what really got you all hot and bothered or should I?”

“It was both of you,” Shane blurts out, the verbal equivalent of ripping off a band-aid. “Can we _please_ leave it at that because I can’t handle sharing the details right now.”

“Gee, that must suck,” Ryan sighs. “Wanting to keep personal shit to yourself.”

Shane eyeballs him. “I can’t imagine why anyone would ever want to spank you.”

“Careful there, babe.” Sara sounds delighted and a touch concerned. “But for real, Ryan, how do you like it? Barehanded? Paddles?”

Shane has a minor heart attack, but Ryan bursts out laughing. “Jesus, you two deserve each other.”

“So do you guys. Seriously. Why haven’t you made out yet?”

Ryan looks like she just reached through the phone and hit him with a bat.

“I mean made up,” Sara says sweetly.

By this point, Shane is expecting Ryan to just hang up on her.

The last thing in the world he expects is for Ryan to dart a glance at him and reply, all in one breath, “He’s a vanilla dude with a girlfriend and we work together and I’m still kind of mad at him for almost drowning.”

Every bit of oxygen in the room disappears. Shane can’t move, can’t even breathe. Across the table, Ryan meets his eyes again and doesn’t look away this time.

“That’s understandable,” says Sara, like the entire universe didn’t just reverse rotation. “But just saying, working together means you know just how compatible you are. Shane and I work together and we’re doing fine. And vanilla dude with a girlfriend? I think you know by now you’re correct on just one of two counts there.

“Consider this, though: the girlfriend enjoys him being happy and trusts him to make responsible decisions about what he needs. We don’t have secrets,” she says. “Maybe you guys shouldn’t either.” She pauses for a beat. “Also, Ryan, I’m really sorry. I looked at that pic of your butt almost as much as Shane. It’s a really nice butt.”

Ryan flushes to the tips of his ears. “It’s okay. Nothing surprises me anymore.”

“I’m still sorry. Shane and I were both pretty gross about how we handled that.”

For a moment, Ryan is silent. He sets the phone on the table between them and locks both hands behind his head, like he’s trying to physically push all this information into his brain. “Let’s go back a little bit. You’re seriously okay with Shane macking on other people?”

Hearing Sara’s laugh from three thousand miles away is like unfastening a lock from around his ribs. “I don’t think Shane is physically capable of macking.”

“Hey,” Shane protests, as if he has a leg to stand on.

Sara ignores him. “I’m not okay with him indiscriminately sleeping around. I’m more than okay with him getting it on with his best friend as long as everyone consents and he’s honest with me.” Her voice softens. “He’s been really, really honest with me about this, Ryan. As in, since before we moved in together.”

Somehow, Ryan’s eyes get even bigger. “Are you kidding?”

“Not at all,” Shane says. His nails are digging into the worn wood of the bench so hard his fingertips have gone numb.

“Shane…” Ryan starts, his voice like a raw wound. “What the fuck? You didn’t think you could just talk to me?”

All Shane can do is bite down hard on the inside of his cheek and give a tiny shake of his head.

Sara, bless her, answers for him. “Tomorrow you’ll be home and we can all talk for real, when you’re ready for it. You’re gonna be okay. You both are.”

More than anything, Shane needs her holding him tight, her face between his shoulder blades, her small body warm and safe and solid against him. But this is the next best thing and he seizes it greedily, pulling Sara’s reassurances around him like a security blanket. “Thanks. I love you.”

“You too,” she says softly. “Be good.”

For a long time after they hang up, he and Ryan just look at each other, shyness and exasperation and mixed. Slowly, Shane relaxes his hands until the feeling rushes back into them.

Ryan stands up first. “That was a lot, huh? Let’s just get through the day, okay? We’ve got an interview to do and ghosts to fight.”

 _"Are_ we gonna be okay?” The same old lump of panic is rising in Shane’s throat again.

Ryan blinks at him like this is the most absurd thing he could possibly ask. “Well. Yeah. We had a fight and we’ve got some stuff to figure out. It happens. But we’re getting through it and coming out stronger.” He smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners, hair still a rain-damp mess. “We got this.”

Shane gets to his feet and smiles back.

Falling for Ryan has been like toying with things that burn: he won't pick them up, he knows better, but he can poke them around with a stick.

As they walk back towards the lighthouse together in the rain, though, burning doesn’t feel so bad.

“Bare hands, by the way,” Ryan says conversationally. “Preferably over the knee.”

When Shane stumbles over a slick patch of pine needles, Ryan grabs hold of his hand to steady him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am working on a follow-up to this, but it’s going to be shorter and if it’s multiple chapters I’ll make sure I have the whole thing written before I post. In the meantime, have a playlist? 
> 
> https://makemadej.tumblr.com/post/185316546816/via

**Author's Note:**

> I'm over at makemadej.tumblr.com if you want to send me writing prompts or gif requests :D


End file.
